The Wistful Skyline
In your right hand, you hold a piece of chert, its edge worn smooth by decades of river water, while in your left, you grip a pencil that has been sharpened so thin it snaps under the slightest pressure. The stone is cold against your palm, a solid anchor in the shifting air of your office, but the pencil is a tool of failure, a thin line of graphite that cannot map the vast, indifferent...
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