The Wistful Atlas
You tell yourself that the coat is just wool, that the lining is just silk, that the buttons are just mother-of-pearl, but you know, in the marrow of your bones, that it is a skin you are wearing to hide the fact that you are still alive, still breathing, still occupying space in this strange, shifting city that feels less like a place and more like a dream that refuses to wake. You have been...
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