The Distant Wound
The ink is dry, Elias, but the skin is not. You hear the scrape of the steel razor against the dermis before you see the blood, a wet, gritty friction that sounds like a mouse dragging its tail across the floorboards of the basement archive, a sound that cuts through the low, constant hum of the ventilation fans and the distant, rhythmic clanking of the coal elevators hauling their black cargo...
0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 1 Views 0 previzualizare