The Distant Garden
You are walking because your legs are moving, and you are not entirely sure why, or if you are still alive in the way that requires a soul to do the walking. The road is a ribbon of pale dust stretching into a grey and featureless sky, and the air tastes of iron and wet wool, a flavor that has been stuck in your throat for so long it has become a part of your anatomy, a second tongue you cannot...
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