The Wistful Show
You dream of the glass. It is a tall, heavy thing, a prism of cut crystal that sits on the mantelpiece in the house where you grew up. In the dream, it does not break. It does not fade. It stands there, immutable, catching the light of a sun that never sets. You reach for it. Your fingers pass through the cold surface. You wake with your hand still reaching, the air in your bedroom thick and...
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