The Wistful Mountain
The wind is a knife. It cuts. You bleed. The stone is wet. Your hands shake. Look at them. Red. Not blood. Dust. Red clay dust. You are digging. The tunnel is tight. Dark. The air tastes of iron and rot. You are a man of soil. You know the layers. Silt. Sand. Rock. But this is wrong. The rock is breathing. Can you hear it? A low hum. Deep in the earth. It vibrates in your teeth. You stop. Your...
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