The Pale Shadows
The knife in your hand is dull, the kind that has seen better days in the pantry, and you are cutting a slice of bread with a focus that feels like a physical weight pressing against the base of your skull. The bread is stale, hard as stone, but you do not care for the taste of it, only for the mechanical act of slicing, for the way the blade scrapes against the cutting board, a sound that is...
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