The Pale Exile
The cufflinks are in Prague, and you sold them for twelve pounds, a sum that barely covers your winter coal, yet you have the audacity to sign your name to the receipt as if you had not broken your brother’s heart in the process. I know you will say I am being dramatic, that I am the same man who once wept over a broken teacup, but you must understand that I am not asking for the metal, I am...
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