The Golden Farce
In the dream, the house was breathing. It was not a metaphor, though Elias had spent forty years in the faculty of philosophy at the university, dissecting the metaphysical from the material with the sterile precision of a surgeon; in the dream, the walls of the estate were ribbed, expanding and contracting with a slow, tectonic sigh that smelled of wet wool and ancient dust. He stood in the...
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