The Wistful Crossroads
The dream does not arrive with the hazy, dissolving quality of sleep but rather with the sharp, cold precision of a scalpel, dissecting the air in the high, vaulted chambers of the Ministry of Continuity, where the light is not sunlight but a sterile, perpetual white that seems to hum against the retina and strip the world of its shadows, leaving only the stark, bleached architecture of power...
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