The Wistful Grid
I woke up with the taste of copper and old rain on my tongue, that metallic tang that usually meant I had bitten through my cheek in my sleep, but this time it was the taste of something much heavier, something that had been sitting on my chest like a wet stone all night long, pressing the air out of my lungs until I could no longer tell where the ceiling ended and the dark began, and I lay...
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