The Distant Machine
My hand is trembling as I dip the quill, the ink spreading into a dark, wet stain on the parchment before I even begin to write. I am trying to steady it, to make the letters look like those of a man who has not spent the last three hours watching an iron box hum in the dark, but my fingers are slick with sweat and the cold from the metal seems to have seeped into my bones. It is the fourteenth...
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