The Golden Circuit
You are sitting at the kitchen table, the wood worn smooth by decades of elbows and spilled coffee, and you are holding a shard of porcelain that is still warm, as if it were just pulled from the oven, but it is not, and the heat is not physical but something that radiates from the memory of the meal you were supposed to eat, the meal that was supposed to be the last one, the meal that was...
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