The Wistful Letter
October 14, 1893. I have counted the planks in the library floor three times today, and each count yields a different number, which is a fact I find difficult to reconcile with the steady beat of my own pulse. The wood is splintered and gritty underfoot, wearing through the soles of my boots in a way that suggests the floor itself is hungry, and I am merely the meal it is slowly digesting. I am...
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