The Golden Farce
The ink on this page is drying slowly, a fact that seems to mirror the sluggish, heavy quality of my thoughts, though I must confess that the hand holding the pen has never been steadier, nor more alien, in the twenty years I have served the cold, sterile corridors of St. Jude’s. It is the fourteenth of November, 1893, and I write to you, Clara, not as a brother seeking comfort, but as a...
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