The Faded Dust
The dream is not a place you visit but a place that visits you, arriving with the heavy, humid breath of a city that has forgotten how to sleep. You are standing in the middle of a wide avenue in Chicago, or perhaps it is New York, the names have blurred into a single, grey smear of glass and steel, but the air tastes of ozone and old rain, a metallic tang that coats the back of your throat. It...
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