The Golden Greenhouse
The jar on the counter is not a jar, it is a sealed lung, a glass bladder distended with the viscous, amber sludge of your own making, and you are holding it with a grip so white-knuckled that the ceramic rim bites into the fleshy pads of your fingers, a pain that is sharp and electric and entirely too real against the dull, rotting ache in your jaw where the extraction was supposed to end. You...
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