The Distant Metropolis
The dream was not a scene but a texture, a persistent and abrasive hum that vibrated in the teeth and settled deep in the marrow of the bones, a sensation of being slowly ground down by an invisible millstone that turned with the slow, indifferent persistence of a glacier. Gerald Finch awoke with the taste of dry dust on his tongue and the specific, hollow ache in his left shoulder where the...
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