The Wistful Show
The dream began with the sound of a zipper tearing through the fabric of the night, a long, sharp shriek that did not wake him but rather pulled him deeper into the cold, wet dark of his own skull. There, in the suspended grey void of sleep, he held the object. It was a small, brass astrolabe, tarnished to the color of old bruises, its intricate engravings worn smooth by fingers that were no...
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