The Wistful Voyage
The gavel strikes. You are not a person here. You are a file. A number. A stain on the white tablecloth of the institution. The room is cold. It has always been cold. The air tastes of dust and old paper. You sit. Your hands are still. They are folded in your lap. They are not trembling. You have trained them not to tremble. The judge looks down. His eyes are flat. He sees the evidence. He sees...
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