The Golden Farce
The dream began, as it always did, with the smell of ozone and the taste of copper on the back of the tongue, a metallic tang that signaled the proximity of something vast and unseen. It was not a nightmare, precisely, but a premonition, a ghostly rehearsal of the day’s tragedy, where the walls of the grand hall of the Ministry of Public Safety did not merely stand but breathed, expanding and...
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