by Andrew Buford
He wore a cloak of pure darkness. A bubbling menagerie of all the things you've ever feared bound into a garment.
He wrote names in the book on his left with a quill of bright, shining gold. He laughed.
"Two million born," he croaked, "I counted each head. But someday soon it's two million dead."
Monday, June 23, 2008
Addition, Subtraction
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