The Golden Farce
The dream does not wake you; it dissolves you, slowly, like sugar in cold tea, until the boundaries of your skin are no longer distinct from the damp, mossy air of the courtyard where you have stood for what feels like centuries, if centuries can be measured in the slow, agonizing ticks of a clock that has no hands, only a face painted with the faded gold of a sun that never sets and never...
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