The Distant Machine
The dream was not of sleeping but of waking, a persistent and grinding clarity where the air tasted of copper and old rain, and I stood in the shadow of the great iron lattice that held the city’s breath, watching the water rise not as a tide but as a slow, deliberate unmaking of the world we had built on stone and silence. I wrote this down later, by the flickering light of a tallow candle...
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