The Wistful Campus
You stand now at the apex of the gilded cage, your hand outstretched toward the glass dome that seals the Conservatory, where the air is thick with the scent of rotting orchids and the sweet, cloying perfume of decay that the masters of this house mistake for divinity, and you feel the weight of the world pressing against your sternum, a physical bruise that has been expanding since you were...
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