The Distant Machine
The ink is drying on the form. I press the nib harder, and the paper tears, a small white wound in the center of the ledger. My hand shakes. It has been shaking for three years, since the frostbit toes, since the fever that took the use of my left ring finger. I am forty-two, and I feel eighty. I am writing this to no one, or perhaps to the man who used to be me, the one who believed that a...
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