The Faded Quadrant
The weight of the ink is what undoes you, not the words, for the words are only the shape the weight takes when it falls on the page, and you have spent three hours in the damp cellar counting the grams of lead in the old binding, weighing the cost of your own silence against the tenure committee’s deadline, which is Friday, which is tomorrow, which is a wall you are about to walk into. You are...
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