The Golden Myth
The dream is not of gold. It is of weight. You are standing inside the shell of the Municipal Hall, the air thick with the smell of wet plaster and iron filings. The dome above you is not a beacon; it is a lid. It presses down, a slow, tectonic crush that makes your teeth ache. You wake with the taste of chalk dust in your mouth, the sheets twisted around your legs like binding wire. It is...
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