The Wistful Incense

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2026-08-21 09:42:02 -

The ink is wet. It stains the white cotton of my cuff. I do not wipe it. The blot grows. It is a dark star. I stare at it. The paper beneath my hand is thin. It is cheap. It feels like dead skin. I am in the office. The room is cold. The radiator clanks. It sounds like a bone breaking. I hold the pen. I hold the seal. I hold the truth. The truth is a heavy thing. It has weight. It presses on my...

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