The Wistful Skyline
The wind outside the window of your cell is not merely air but a physical weight, a thick, damp substance that presses against the glass until it shatters, and as the cold rushes in to fill the void where the warmth used to be, you realize that the sky above the iron bars is not blue but a fractured mosaic of ice, splitting and reassembling itself in a silent, violent loop that mirrors the...
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