Thousand: Five Hundred Twenty-Three

getting worse, they’re not getting worse faster than usual. Which is to say,” Jack pours himself a cup of wine then replaces the stone jug on the floor, “I’m taking some time to relax.” He sips at the dark and acrid wine. Up in the shadowed corners of the hall there are fissures that will never open wide enough to allow passage even of spirits. But there is one that will. More than one, perhaps. But one, at least. The wine is cold and stays cold on his tongue and moves slowly through his mouth. When he swallows the wine