The Wistful Incense
The incense bowl sat on the mahogany desk, a small, brass vessel that had once held the scent of sandalwood and now held only the memory of ash, and I looked at it with the peculiar, detached curiosity of a man who knows that the object in front of him is not an object at all but a trapdoor, a hinge upon which the entire architecture of my life has swung back and forth until the wood has...
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