The Distant Wound

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2026-08-18 18:35:04 -

The Distant Wound

The dream was not of falling, as the old poets had claimed, but of running, a frantic, breathless sprint across a landscape that was entirely made of paper, white and endless and blindingly bright, where the wind did not blow but rustled, a dry, skittering sound like the turning of ten thousand pages, and in that white void, Thomas Bradshaw could see, with a clarity that felt like a needle...

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