The Faded Frequency
The rain hits the window. It sounds like static. You sit in the corner. Your knees are pulled up. Your hands are shaking. They are always shaking now. You are twelve. Or maybe thirteen. Time is soft here. It has no edges. You live in the basement. The walls are damp. The air tastes of mold and old paper. You love the house. You love the walls. You want to be part of them. You want to dissolve...
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