The Faded Masquerade

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2026-08-21 19:45:40 -

The moth was dead on the windowsill, its wings tattered into gray lace. It had flown in through the gap in the frame, drawn by the amber glow of my desk lamp, and now it lay there, a ruin of chitin and dust. I watched it for a long time. I am a man of few habits, but I have the habit of watching decay. It is the only process that seems honest. "You look well, sir." The voice came from the...

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