The Wistful Atlas
March 14, 2024 I have counted the hours since the last radio check. It is four hours, twelve minutes. The static in my head has grown louder, a low-frequency hum that sits just behind my teeth, vibrating in the bone. I want out. I want the transfer to the city, a desk job, a life where the air does not feel like it is being sucked out of a sealed room. The opposing force is not the cold, though...
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