The Distant Cartograph
I. Who pays for the ink that moves against its will? I asked this not to the air, but to the damp stone of my office wall, where the door painted on the mossy rock face stared back with a fixed, blank expression. It is a question that costs nothing to ask, yet it hangs in the throat like a swallowed coin. The sun had broken through the cloud layer for the first time in nine days, casting long,...
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