The Pale Bonsai
The dream is always the same, a wet, suffocating intimacy where the soil of the bonsai pot shifts and cracks, revealing not roots but a cluster of small, yellowed human teeth, grinding against each other with a sound like dry bones. You wake with the taste of loam on your tongue, the phantom pressure of dirt in your sinuses, and the immediate, crushing weight of the email from Dean Ashworth on...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen