The Distant Garden
The pen in my hand was a ballpoint, cheap and plastic, and it squeaked against the heavy, cream-colored paper of the grant proposal. I underlined the phrase "sustained linguistic inquiry" three times, a habit born of anxiety, of a need to make the words stick. The room was cold. It was a specific, dry cold that seeped through the floorboards, a chill that had nothing to do with the season and...
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