The Pale Shadows
The dream is always the same, a silent catastrophe of wings. You see them in the peripheral vision, a cloud of white moths with the delicate, terrifying symmetry of lace, drifting through the high-security wing of the Penitentiary of New Jersey, settling on your dark blue uniform. They do not eat fabric; they eat the structure of your life, dissolving the rigid lines of your shoulder patches...
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