The Pale Bonsai
The room is white, so perfectly white that it ceases to be a color and becomes a frequency, a high-pitched hum that vibrates in the marrow of your bones, a sterile expanse where the light does not fall but rather exists as a constant, omnipresent pressure that denies the existence of shadows, of depth, of the comforting obscurity that once defined the corners of your office at the university,...
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