The Wistful Grid
1924, November 14. The dust in this study has settled into a fine, grey silt that coats the spines of my books and the rims of my spectacles, a quiet accumulation that mirrors the slow, inevitable decay of my own hands, which tremble now with a palsy that no amount of rigid discipline can suppress. I am forty years old, and the clock on the mantel, which I have wound every day for a decade,...
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