The Wistful Asylum
You’re holding it wrong, Ronan. That’s what the doctor used to say, back when the asylum still had a roof that didn’t leak, back when the pay was two shillings and six a week and the work was just lifting bodies that weighed more than sense. Now the pay is gone, the roof is a hole in the sky, and the work is holding a piece of glass that hums like a live wire. It is a fractured obsidian mirror,...
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