The Wistful Show
The taste is metallic. Thick. Like chewing on a coin that has been buried in wet earth for a century. You do not open your eyes. You do not need to. The sensation is absolute, a physical weight pressing against the back of your throat, dissolving into the bloodstream with a slow, terrifying warmth. You are in the kitchen. You know this by the smell of cold porcelain and the faint, dusty scent...
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