The Pale Circus
The dream was of glass. Not clear glass. Not the clean, sterile panes of office towers. This was old glass. Greenish. Thick. It smelled of vinegar and old blood. It stood in a field that was not a field, but a street paved with black stone. The building was a cathedral. Or a circus. The architecture was wrong. The spires were too wide. The doors were too high. The windows were too many. Mara...
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