The Distant Machine
14th of October, 1904 The rain has not stopped for three days, a grey curtain that blurs the iron fence of the Blackwood Asylum into a smear of rust and shadow. I write this by the flickering light of a tallow candle, my hands trembling not from cold, but from the knowledge that the quarterly review begins at dawn, and with it, the finality of the Board’s decision. They call it insanity, this...
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