The Faded Alibi
You dream of the porcelain. It is not a dream of beauty. It is a dream of weight. The blue china teacup sits on the shelf above your head, spinning slowly in a void of white. You try to reach for it. Your hand passes through the air. The cup shatters. The shards do not fall. They hang suspended in the light, sharp and blue and endless. You wake with the taste of copper in your mouth. The room...
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