The Golden Quest
The dream has the texture of coal dust, a fine black silt that settles in the crevices of my eyelids and tastes of iron and old blood, and I am standing in the shaft of the Hollow Creek mine, listening to a sound that is not quite a song but a warning, a high, thin whistle that cuts through the roar of the ventilation fans and the groan of the timber supports. I write this from the narrow cot...
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