The Wistful Saga
The dream begins with the sound of tearing, a wet, fibrous shriek that seems to originate from inside your own ear canal, and you are standing in the kitchen of the house on Elm Street, a place that feels simultaneously familiar and alien, the linoleum floor cold against the soles of your bare feet while the air hangs thick with the scent of ozone and rotting lilies. You are holding the glass...
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