The Golden Downtown
The dream is not of water, but of wire, a golden lattice that stretches across a sky the color of bruised plums, and in the center of this grid hangs a bird, its feathers vibrating with a frequency that you feel in your teeth rather than hear with your ears, and you are running, your legs heavy with the leaden weight of fifty-two years, toward a door that is slightly ajar, and when you wake,...
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