The Golden Suspect
You dream of the wire. It hums. It sings. A low, golden thrum that vibrates in your teeth. You are standing in the yard. The grass is high. The fence is gone. There is only the wire. It stretches across the sky. It is not metal. It is light. It is warm. You wake up. The sheet is wet. Your face is pressed into the pillow. You pull back. The room is dark. The air is cold. You stand. Your knees...
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