the origin of clouds (a novel)#3

        Strange Love guided himself up twenty-two flights of stairs, occasionally stopping to catch his breath and adjust himself and once again thought, “How long the elevator been broke?” before arriving at the eleventh floor landing. Once on the other side of the door, he stayed hunched over and sweating, pulled a handful of handkerchief that had collapsed with time from his pocket, and wiped all trace of strain from his face. For the faintest moment, a long, thin shadow running across his cheek, he wondered how time had betrayed him. Spreading the damp, flimsy square in his hand, he noticed how dull it had grown from washing. The yellowed stitching along its seams, creeping into stains, showed up like vague thoughts. He had not grown use to the idea of being alone in the world.

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