The Pale Protocol
The milk in the carton had turned a sour, curdled yellow, the skin on its surface a pale, taut membrane that I watched with a detached, clinical fascination, my fingers wrapped around the cold plastic as if it were a lifeline thrown to me from a shore I could no longer see. I sat in the kitchen, the only light in the house coming from the streetlamp outside the window, casting long, skeletal...
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