The Golden Farce
The dream is always the same: a room made of glass, and in the center of that room, a figure standing with his back to you, his silhouette cut from the negative space of the world. You wake with the taste of iron on your tongue, the metallic tang of old blood and rust, and you know, with a certainty that feels like a physical blow to the sternum, that you are no longer the man who came to...
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