The Golden Circuit
The rain hit the iron roof like a thousand small fists. I wrote. My hand shook. Not from cold. From fear. The letter was already half gone. Ink blurred on the wet paper. I held the pen tight. It felt heavy. Like a bone. I am writing this because I am dying. Or perhaps I am just waking up. The distinction is slipping. The room smells of ozone and wet wool. Outside, the fog rolls in from the...
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