The Wistful Atlas
I woke with the taste of iron and ash on my tongue, a metallic residue that clung to the back of my throat like a second skin, a phantom flavor from a meal I could not remember eating, yet the salivary glands were active, producing a thick, viscous fluid that tasted of copper pennies and burnt sugar, as if my own body had been undergoing a chemical distillation process while I slept. The air in...
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