The Pale Altar
Did the Altar eat the winter, or did we eat the Altar? I ask this because the cold is different now. It has teeth. Before, the border line was a hum, a low vibration you felt in the molars, like the looms in the match factory when they started at dawn. Now it is silence. A heavy, white silence that presses against the skin. I am Eamon Mahoney. That name is on the ledger, though the ledger is...
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