The Faded Quadrant
You are holding a dead bird, Thomas, or perhaps you are holding the idea of a dead bird, because the feathers have turned to ash and the eyes have gone cloudy with the specific, milky cataract of time, and I am standing three yards away in the mud of the road, watching you fumble with your hands, which are stained black not with dirt but with the ink of a life spent trying to categorize the...
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