The Distant Cartograph

added blog Literature

2026-08-21 16:05:33 -

You wake with the taste of iron on your tongue. The mud is in your teeth. You spit it out. Red. Dark. Not blood. Just dirt. But it tastes like blood. You are on your knees. The sky is a bruise. Purple. Grey. It does not move. You wait for the sun. It does not come. Who are you? You ask the air. No answer. Only the wind. It bites. Cold. Sharp. You look at your hands. They are large. Clenched....

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