The Distant Cartograph
The mud here does not merely sit; it consumes, a thick, anaerobic slurry that swallows boots, rifles, and men whole, and I have spent the last three days trying to keep my head above the surface of it, both literally and in the sense that my mind is drowning in a request that was denied. I am writing this on a scrap of field dressing that has seen better days, the ink bleeding slightly in the...
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