The Wistful Mountain
The hunger is not a thing that comes and goes like the weather here in the high, thin air of the old world, but a constant, grinding presence, a stone in the belly that you carry with you into every room, every market, every moment of sleep, until you stop noticing it exists and start noticing only what it eats. You are a man who has crossed the sea, you are a man who has left behind the green,...
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