The Faded Sutra
The static is loud today, is it not? You can feel it in the fillings of your teeth, a high-pitched whine that sits just behind the left eye. I have been here three weeks, and still the sound of the ironworks does not settle into the background; it remains a physical weight, a thick, rust-colored fog that coats the lungs and the conscience alike. I came for the pension, for the four shillings a...
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