The Distant Metropolis
The roasted pheasant sat on the white porcelain plate like a small, gilded corpse, its skin crisp and shimmering under the harsh, institutional light of the St. Jude’s dining hall, and I stared at it with a hunger that felt less like a need for calories and more like a desperate, clawing obsession for the texture of the real, for the salt and oil that promised to anchor me to a world that the...
0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 2 Views 0 Anteprima