The Golden Harbor
The dream always starts with the sound of the loom. It is a dry, rhythmic clatter, like a giant’s teeth grinding against a stone floor, and in the darkness I see the shuttle flying back and forth, weaving a fabric that is not cloth but light, a blinding, golden light that burns through the cotton and spills out into the night. I reach for it, my fingers trembling, and the warmth of it seeps...
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