The Pale Bonsai
The tea in the chipped ceramic cup has gone cold, leaving a ring of brown sediment at the bottom, a small, circular scar that mirrors the stain of rust on the iron railing of the window, and I sit here in the dim, amber light of the infirmary, waiting for the pain to subside, or perhaps for the pain to arrive, for in this place, the absence of suffering is often more terrifying than its...
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