The Distant Nightmare
The table is long. It stretches into a darkness that has no name. You sit at the far end. The chair is cold wood. It bites into your thighs. You do not move. You are here. You are always here. The room is not a room. It is a space made of memory and dust. The walls breathe. They are made of old paper. Yellowed. Stained with wine and blood. You see the stains clearly. They are not wine. They are...
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