The Distant Garden

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2026-08-19 22:06:06 -

The dream was not of sleep, but of a specific, sterile white room that smelled of antiseptic and boiled wool. I was standing at the center of it, holding a bowl of porridge. It was thick, beige, and perfectly smooth. I did not eat it. I simply held it, feeling the heat radiate through the ceramic, a constant, unyielding warmth that seemed to anchor me to the floor. In the dream, I knew with...

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