The Wistful Incense
The ink in my pen runs dry faster than the oil in the lamp, which is a metaphor I am not clever enough to maintain, so I will simply say that the workshop is for sale and I am the fool who agreed to it. My hands are shaking again, the tremor that started three years ago when the arthritis settled into the knuckles like a tenant who refuses to pay rent. I am fifty, which is an age when a man...
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