The Wistful Voyage
The ceramic tile of the kitchen counter is cold under your palms, smooth and unyielding, a surface that holds no heat and gives back none, and you are pressing your thumb into the faint groove where the tile meets the grout, feeling the grit of old soap scum, while the clock on the wall ticks with a mechanical indifference that seems to mock the urgency of your breathing. You are Martin, a man...
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