The Distant Ghost
The dream is not a narrative but a geography, a sprawling, violet-hued terrain where the air tastes of copper and old roses, and you are walking through a court that has no end, only a ceiling of swirling nebulae that pulse with the rhythm of your own forgotten heartbeat. You do not know why you are here, or who you are, only that the weight in your hands is absolute, a physical anchor to this...
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