The Wistful Grid
The light in the office was the pale, flat white of a hospital corridor, and it made the hum in the walls feel less like sound and more like a pressure behind my eyes. I sat at my desk, staring at the actuarial table for mortality rates, trying to ignore the way the fluorescent tube above me flickered in a rhythm that matched my own pulse. I needed to secure my tenure by the end of the second...
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