The Wistful Atlas
What is the point of measuring a thing if the hand that holds the measure is already dissolving into the air? I asked this not to Luc, who was already turning his back, but to the low cloud that had hung over the Vercors plateau since October, a physical weight that pressed against the canvas of our tent until the poles groaned in a frequency only the old men seemed to hear. My left hand, the...
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