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Callouses
I’m learning how to manufacture time. It’s like printing money that you stitch together into a ribbon that wraps the Earth a dozen times, single-sided tender to pay for those shoes you use to walk backwards over your own footsteps, leaking ink onto your map, the ocean eroding your monolithic birthday cake into beach sand.
Pity the hands. They feel it first, just before they seize up and stop feeling anything.
