The Distant Joke
In the dream, the moths do not die; they simply cease to be recognized, their wings folding into the dark until they are indistinguishable from the dust motes that hang suspended in the amber light of the gas lamps. You are standing in the center of a vast, empty room, the floorboards creaking beneath your feet with a sound like dry leaves scraping against stone, and the air is thick with the...
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