The Distant Affair
The dream begins not with light, but with the sensation of your own lungs collapsing, a wet and terrible squeezing that pulls you into the damp, industrial fog of a city that exists only in the marrow of your sleep, a place where the air tastes of iron filings and the rain falls upward like a slow, grey snow that settles on the shoulders of the dead. You are standing in the vast, echoing belly...
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