The Distant Joke

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2026-08-19 11:47:44 -

The Distant Joke

The dream begins with the taste of iron and the sound of your own breathing, a wet and rhythmic rasp that seems to come not from your throat but from the cold, stone floor beneath your knees. You are in the Chapel of St. Jude, the high altar draped in violet cloth that has faded to the color of bruised flesh, and the air is thick with the scent of beeswax and decay. You look down at your hands,...

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