The Golden Myth
The dream is not of light, but of the heavy, suffocating scent of wet wool and the rhythmic, deafening thud of the pestle against the mortar, a sound that seems to come not from the room but from the marrow of your own skull, vibrating in the hollows of your teeth and the backs of your eyes as you lie trapped beneath the coarse, unbleached linen sheets, the air thick with the dust of centuries...
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