The Pale Meridian
The dream had the texture of wet plaster, a pale, unyielding wall that pressed against my chest as I slept, and in that grey, liminal space I saw the moth again. It was not a common species, nothing one would find fluttering against a porch light in the suburban sprawl of Ohio or the coastal dampness of Connecticut, but a creature of impossible density, its wingspan wide enough to cover my...
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