The Pale Bonsai
You wake with the taste of copper on your tongue, a metallic tang that lingers long after you have spat into the porcelain sink, the water running clear but cold against your wrists. It is not morning yet, but the city hums its low, indifferent drone through the double-paned windows of your apartment, a sound like static from a radio tuned between stations. You are holding it. You do not...
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