The Distant Nightmare
The glass did not shatter; it dissolved. This is the first thing the Committee of Aesthetic Integrity wanted to understand, and the last thing I could explain. They sat in their high-backed leather chairs, smelling of old money and polished mahogany, and they asked me, with the condescending patience of men who have never once felt the cold, if I was sure it was not a trick of the light. I was...
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