The Wistful Show
The dream arrives not with the violence of intrusion but with the slow, viscous creep of fog rolling over the moors of your memory, a thick, grey blanket that smells of wet wool and old dust, and in this suspended state of half-waking you are standing in the vast, cavernous hall of the Department of Public Records, a place where the air is so dry it cracks the skin on your lips and the silence...
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