The Wistful Asylum
The dream is not a dark thing, as you have been taught to fear, but a place of sterile, blinding white, where the air tastes of ozone and old paper, and the silence is so profound it vibrates against the eardrums like a low, sustained hum. You are standing in the center of a long, corridor-like room, and your feet do not touch the floor; you hover, weightless, suspended in a mist that feels...
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