The Wistful Atlas
The silk is tearing again, and you’re holding the needle wrong, Elias. I am holding the needle wrong. My hand, which has spent twelve years tracing the precise, unyielding contours of municipal boundaries, is trembling so violently that the thread snaps with a sound like a tiny bone breaking. I sit in the cramped apartment on Harrow Street, the radiator clanking its rhythmic, metallic complaint...
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