The Faded Portrait
The dream is not a dark place, as you might expect from a night spent in the suffocating, neon-drenched purgatory of the city, but rather a vast, white expanse that hums with the low, vibrating frequency of a cello string pulled too tight until it snaps, a silence so profound it feels like a physical weight pressing against the back of your skull, forcing you to stand upright in the snow that...
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