The Wistful Witness
The dream is a tapestry of wool and wire, stretching out beneath a sky the color of bruised plums, and you are standing on a precipice of glass, looking down into a valley where the wind does not blow but screams, a high-pitched frequency that vibrates in the marrow of your teeth. You are wearing a coat, a heavy thing of charcoal wool, lined with a silk that feels like cold water against your...
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