The Distant Joke
The dream began not with a sound, but with a texture, the rough, fibrous grit of the old stone walls of the St. Jude’s asylum pressing against the back of Elias Thorne’s skull as he lay suspended in the center of the courtyard, his body weightless, his mind heavy with the particular, suffocating humidity of a July afternoon that had stretched itself into an eternity of stillness, a time when...
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