The Wistful Grid
14th October, 1892. I dreamt again of the grid. It was not the rigid, unyielding lattice of the city streets that I have walked for forty years, but a web of light suspended in a void of absolute, terrifying silence. In the dream, the lines were not painted on the ground but woven from the threads of my own unraveling nerves. I stood in the center, a node in a circuit that no one else could...
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