The Wistful Incense
The silk shawl, once the color of a bruised plum and now the faded grey of a winter sky, lies folded upon the washboard like a sleeping bird that has forgotten how to fly, its heavy, damask pattern of intertwining vines a testament to the intricate architecture of a life you have systematically dismantled for the sake of your own survival. You sit in the blue hour of the early morning, the air...
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