The Wistful Petal
The door is thin. You press your ear against it. It is the only rule. The wall is not stone. It is paper. It is skin. It is the membrane between the here and the there. You are small. You are always small. The room is white. It is too white. It bleaches the thought out of your skull. You count to ten. One. Two. Three. The number is a wall. The number is a cage. You cannot hold the shape. It...
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