The Distant Threshold
I have been dreaming of the hand for three days, a hand that is not quite flesh but rather a conglomeration of pale, translucent clay and old, dried blood, extending from the damp earth of my cellar as if it were a root system seeking the water table of my own failing lungs. The hand belongs to no one I can name, yet it moves with the sluggish, deliberate grace of a limb that has forgotten the...
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