The Wistful Voyage
You dream of the glass. Not the window, not the mirror, but the shard. It sits on the floor of a white room, catching a light that has no source. You pick it up. It cuts your palm. The blood is black. You drop it. It shatters. You wake up in the cell. The air is cold. It tastes of rust. You are wearing a grey jumpsuit. The fabric is thin. It scratches your neck. You do not look down. You know...
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