Karly Grice

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The sterile walls, the way numbered names and faces stood over her as if to comfort, as if to assure her that clean was the only thing she could ever want, desire. Cleanse the dirtiness from her mind, her lips, her tongue, the way her thighs moved, so that then—and only then—she would be something holy. But it was the dirt in between her fingers now that was real, not their lights and dictates. Not the dirt they perceived. She reminded herself of the dirt before her, under her—the real dirt—of the way it shifted in her hands; at her fingertips it was suddenly smooth and cold, the slab they’d ...more
The Memory Librarian and Other Stories of Dirty Computer
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