The Wistful Asylum
I have always believed that the truth is a fragile thing, like a sheet of ice stretched over a deep and freezing hole, and that to step upon it with any kind of weight is to invite the cold water to rush up and swallow you whole, yet here I am, walking carefully, carefully, across the vast, silent expanse of the Queen’s garden, my footsteps muffled by the thick, damp moss that has grown so...
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