The Pale Meridian
You keep the collar tight. That is the first rule. You remember it the way you remember your own heartbeat, a dull, persistent thud in the hollow of your throat. The silk is old. It has frayed at the edges, the threads pulling loose like hair from a tired head. It used to be white. Now it is the color of bone left too long in the sun. You wear it always. It is part of you. When you sleep, it...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews