The Wistful Skyline
The grease under your fingernails is old, a brown crust that no amount of scrubbing with pumice and lye soap will lift. You are trying to sign the pension form, the pen tip scratching against the cheap bond paper, but your hand trembles, a fine vibration that makes the letters waver like reeds in a wind you cannot feel. The ink bleeds slightly into the fiber, a small dark stain that looks like...
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