The Distant Machine
The glass was cold in my hand. It trembled, not from the winter air that leaked through the windowpanes, but from a vibration that seemed to originate in the marrow of my bones. I held it up to the light. Inside the crystal, a fracture spread like a river delta, a fine web of white lines that caught the grey morning. It was beautiful. It was broken. I set it on the desk. The wood was old oak,...
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