The Golden Farce
The road is not a line but a wound, a jagged tear in the earth that you have been walking for so long it has become the texture of your skin, and you know this with the bone-deep certainty of a man who has spent his life carrying the weight of a uniform that no longer fits the body beneath it. You are walking, and the wind is cold, a thin, sharp thing that cuts through the heavy wool of your...
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