The Wistful Saga
The dream begins with the sound of your own hands, a rhythmic, wet thumping against the cold, blue flesh of the whale, which is not a whale but a vast, translucent sheet of glass suspended in the air of the small, dusty workshop in Harrowgate, and you are cutting the glass with a diamond-tipped scribe, the tool vibrating so violently in your palm that you feel the shudder traveling up your...
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