Chapter 52 · for subscribers
Five ruled lines on a harbour wall in cramped left-handed capitals, a yard from where the whole county queues for the eight o'clock boat. The book on the gasworks bench was private. This was published. Whoever keeps that register had stopped caring who read it, and in twenty years of this work I have only ever seen a man stop caring about that when he was nearly finished.
Artwork and narration generated with AI.