The Wistful Asylum
The hum started in my molars, a low thrum that vibrated up through the jawbone and settled behind the eyes. I pressed my tongue against the roof of my mouth, trying to dampen the sound, but it was not in the air; it was in the wood of the cabin, in the iron of the stove, in the very marrow of the thing I had built to keep the world at bay. It was October fourteenth, and I had come to these...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews