The Wistful Petal
The dream was not a dream but a slow, viscous bleeding of reality into the marrow of my bones, a phenomenon the physicians in the sterile, fluorescent-lit corridors of the St. Jude’s Asylum for the Chronically Displaced would later classify as acute ontological slippage, a term so cold and clinical it made my teeth ache with a phantom pain that had nothing to do with nerves and everything to do...
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