The Golden Circuit
The dream is a house of glass. It stands in a field of wet slate, towering and fragile. You are inside. The walls hum with a low, electric drone that tastes of copper and ozone. You hold a shard of this glass in your right hand. It is not cold. It is warm, pulsing with a faint, golden light. It is beautiful. It is breaking. You wake with the taste of iron on your tongue. The ceiling above you...
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