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  • William Fung

Abstract

The clock hand moves.

Another minute passes.

            I wring my hands slightly, feeling the smooth curvature of my nails. They feel foreign and alien, like hands that aren’t my own. I take a deep breath, and the slight burn of fresh air mixed with the faint unfamiliar odour around me hurries down my throat.

Published
2015-03-27
Section
Prose