The Golden Ritual
You stand in the center of the white room, which is not a room but a suspension, a void that hums with the low, electric frequency of a server farm left to rot in the basement of a company that no longer exists, and you are holding your own hands, cupped together as if they were made of wet clay that might dissolve if you let go, and the skin on your palms is peeling away in translucent sheets...
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