The art of letter writing might have died out, and philately become a terminal study, if it were not for the Telephonic Collapse and other related catastrophes of long-distance communication.
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Closed Tear
You are in the library.
No. Sink deeper. Before you were sprayed with the nasty corrosive gunk of ego and culture. Before you were covered in linguistic contaminants. Before you were sterilized and cauterized, and the wounds of your mind were still open and fresh.
You are on a distant island of this fantastic but mundane empire. The sun is fading through the windows, smeared into burning droplets. You came for shelter from the rain, and the mosquitoes. They lay their eggs in standing water, so all week they have been breeding and you don’t want to get bit or have to drink bitter quinine to stave off super-malaria.
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