The Wistful Voyage
In the fevered, translucent architecture of the dream, the rain did not fall from the sky but rose from the cobblestones of the town square, a vertical exhalation of gray mist that swallowed the lower half of the world, leaving only the gabled roofs and the spire of the old stone church visible against a bruised and swollen twilight. The dream was not a place of rest but a technical failure, a...
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