The Golden Farce
My fingers were already stained with the black, viscous ink of the Golden Farce collection when Director Minh arrived at the seed-library night desk. I was halfway through cataloging the index for tenure, the ration chit for water hours clutched in my left hand like a talisman, while my right hand hovered over the fragile, shattering paper. The smell hit me before the sight did: ozone and old...
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