The Distant Nightmare
In the dream, the snow was falling upward, a white inversion of gravity that made David’s teeth ache with a cold so pure it felt like a spiritual cleansing, and he stood in the center of the living room, the one with the beige carpet and the crack in the plaster above the mantelpiece, watching his wife, Sarah, peel the skin from a potato with the slow, deliberate focus of a surgeon removing a...
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