The Distant Garden

added blog Literature

2026-08-21 15:19:15 -

You wake up in the machine. The gears are cold. Your teeth are iron. "Sit up," says the Foreman. His voice is like gravel in a tin can. You sit. The chair is metal. It bites into your spine. You look down. Your hands are there. They are not hands. They are pistons. They are levers. They are white bone wrapped in leather that smells of oil. "Who are you?" you ask. "Who am I?" The Foreman laughs....

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