The Distant Legend
The bread is cold. You hold it in your hands. The crust is brittle. It shatters. Crumbs fall on the snow. You watch them vanish. You are a scholar of the Old Rite. You know the words. You do not know the weight of them. The institution demands purity. It demands silence. It demands you forget the taste. You walk the moor. The wind cuts your face. It is winter. The heather is black. The sky is...
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