The Wistful Incense
You are walking. The ground is not dirt. It is not stone. It is a composite material, smooth and cold, humming with a low frequency that you feel in your teeth. You are wearing a suit that does not exist. It is tailored from static and regret. The fabric shifts when you look at it, blurring at the edges like a bad transmission. You are running. You are always running. But here, speed is a...
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