The Distant Machine
October 14, 1912. I am sitting on the edge of the coal scuttle, the iron cold against my back, and I am writing this in the margin of a delivery slip that Mr. Vane left on the foreman’s desk. The ink is blue, the kind that bleeds if you press too hard, and my hand is shaking not from the cold, though the October wind cuts through the gaps in the mill’s brickwork, but from the sheer, terrifying...
0 Yorumlar 0 hisse senetleri 1 Views 0 önizleme