The Golden Circuit
The ink is thin today. It runs like water, or perhaps like the blood I am too afraid to draw. I am fifty-eight years old, and my hands, once steady enough to calibrate the most delicate siphons in the county, now betray me with a tremor that makes the glass vials shiver in their racks. The decay is not merely in the skin; it is in the nerve, in the will. I have spent three decades grinding...
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