The Distant Machine
14 October 1923 Julian, The cold has settled into the joints of the house again, a dampness that no amount of coal can burn away. I write to you because I find I cannot speak to the men of this village, who look at my left wrist as if it were a tumor, and I find I cannot speak to myself, who looks at the iron cuff and sees only a grave. You asked, in your last letter, why I have not surrendered...
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