The Wistful Grid
October 14, 1923 The ink blots on the page like a bruise, spreading its dark, wet fingers across the ledger lines I have spent the last three hours trying to straighten. My hand is no longer my own; it is a trembling, alien thing that fights the pen as if the graphite were a living insect seeking to escape the nib. I am forty years old, and I am already dissolving, the palsy creeping up my...
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