lack of illumination wasn't the problem. not even lack of imagination. just deficit love and too much time and the thick film of dirt- settled from lack of use and movement. even the air held a heaviness, like a silent requiem. this room of sharply angled ceilings held all his life in books and boxes and piles of childhood stuffed into acute corners.
a door creaked open, sudden breathing and scattered dust, the window flung open. a life gone, ready to be discovered.
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