The Pale Bonsai
The dream is not a dream, you tell yourself, but a memory of a dream. You are standing in the atrium of the St. Jude’s Administrative Complex, a building of such oppressive beige that it seems to absorb the light from the single, flickering skylight above. The air is still, thick with the scent of dust and old paper, a smell that has settled into the pores of the walls. You are wearing your...
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