The Faded Attic
You dream of the river. It is wide and gray. The water does not move. It sits like a sheet of hammered lead, reflecting a sky that has no stars. You are standing on the bank. Your shoes are wet. The mud sucks at your heels. You look down. Your reflection is not there. You are not there. Only the mud. Only the gray. You wake up in the office. The fluorescent lights hum. The hum is a low, sick...
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