The Wistful Skyline
The brass weight of the desk lamp sat in my palm, cold and heavy, a small anchor in the swirling gray of the waking world. I held it there, gripping the base until the metal bit into my skin, waiting for the kitchen to resolve from a haze of translucent shapes into the familiar linoleum and the hum of the refrigerator. It always started with the light, that specific, low-frequency whine that...
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