The Distant Machine
The dream always began with the sound of shattering glass. It was not the sharp, clean crack of a wine glass dropping onto tile, but the deep, resonant boom of a pane of window glass giving way to the pressure of a storm. In the dream, Arthur Penhaligon stood in his kitchen, holding a jar of preserves. The lid had popped. The seal had broken. And as he watched, the glass did not fall outward;...
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