The Wistful Voyage

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2026-08-17 22:05:16 -

I dreamt of the water again. It was not the blue of the Atlantic, nor the grey of the Thames, but a deep, arterial red that pulsed against the glass of the world. In the dream, my father stood at the prow of a boat that was not a boat, but a ribcage made of driftwood, holding a lantern that burned with cold smoke. He did not look at me. He looked only at the horizon, where the sky was tearing...

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