The Distant Machine
The pencil tip cracked against the slate of my journal, leaving a jagged white scar in the dark wood, and I watched the fragments of graphite scatter into the snow that was already beginning to settle on the open page. It is the twelfth of October, 1893, and the cold has a specific weight to it today, a dense, wet heaviness that seems to press against the skin rather than just chill the air. I...
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