The Wistful Atlas
You feel the weight of it before you see it, a dull, persistent ache behind the knee cap that has nothing to do with the cold damp of the road and everything to do with the years you have spent marching in straight lines. It is a wear that sits in the marrow, a quiet erosion of the self that happens so slowly you do not notice the stone turning to sand until you try to stand on it and find...
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