The Wistful Grid

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2026-08-21 15:01:25 -

The Wistful Grid

The ink is wet. You see it. It spreads. A black vein. On the white paper. You breathe. Your lungs burn. The air is thin. It tastes of ash. And old stone. You look up. The room is dark. The candles are dead. Stubs of wax. Cold. Gray. Nothing moves. Except you. Your hand shakes. You hold the pen. The nib scratches. It is loud. It is sharp. A sound like tearing skin. You write. You must write....

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