The Distant Machine
The dream does not arrive with a knock. It seeps in, like water through the cracks of a foundation that has long since given up the ghost. You are standing in a room that is not a room. It is a cathedral of static, a vast, humming expanse where the walls are made of woven code and the floor is a mirror of black glass. The air tastes of ozone and old copper. You are wearing your uniform, the one...
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