The Wistful Silence
In the dream, the sky was not a sky but a ceiling of hammered pewter, riveted to the earth with bolts the size of oak barrels. It stretched across the entirety of the Whitmore Industrial Complex, a vast, shimmering dome that trapped the light of a sun that never rose, only burned. Below this metallic firmament, the air tasted of copper and ozone, thick with the hum of machinery that had no...
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