The Distant Nightmare
The fog does not merely sit upon the harbor of Port Ellen; it invades the lungs of the stone warehouses and the marrow of the men who work within them, a cold, wet blanket that presses against the skin until the boundary between the outside world and the interior self becomes a permeable membrane, dissolving into the grey, damp air that tastes of rust, rot, and the indifferent salt of the North...
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