The Golden Ritual
The marrow sings. You hear it. It is a low, wet hum. It lives in the femur. It lives in the tibia. It is the sound of your own becoming. You are a vessel. You are a map. The ink is red. The ink is gold. You remember the dream. You always dream of the mill. The mill is not stone. The mill is bone. It stands in the valley. It is ancient. It is the Law. The Law has no face. The Law has teeth. You...
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