The Pale Tower
The dream always begins with the tower. It is pale, seamless, and rising out of a fog so thick it feels like wet wool against your skin. You are standing at its base, looking up at a height that defies geometry, and then you see the hand. It is not attached to an arm, not to a body, but to the air itself, suspended in the center of the shaft. The hand reaches toward you, fingers splayed in a...
0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 1 Views 0 Anteprima