The Wistful Grid
I Did the stone remember the weight of the dead? Guodong He wrote the question in the margin of the ledger, the ink bleeding slightly into the cheap paper. It was 1963, or perhaps later; the dates on the forms were often smudged by rain or sweat. He sat in the wind farm technician’s hut, a space of velcro and static, listening to the offshore turbines turn. The wind was a physical fact, a...
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