The Wistful Silence
The fog is thick. It tastes of rust. You are in the glass house. The glass is old. It hums. The hum is low. It is in your teeth. You look at your hands. They are trembling. The ink is black. It is wet. You hold the pen. The pen is cold. Your father is here. He is not here. He is in the air. He is in the dust. He is in the cracks of the floor. He died in the winter. The coughing took him. It...
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