The Wistful Grid
The letter from the Blackwood Sanitarium arrived on a Tuesday, the paper thin and grey as the ash that lined the tray where it lay, and you read it twice before you realized that the ink was not quite dry, as if the hand that had written it had been trembling, or perhaps as if the words themselves were still settling into the fiber like sediment in a stagnant pool. The total debt for your...
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