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In Dreams

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The air is hot and close; the gears slough it off heavy with the reek of oil. The racket never ceases, a constant din of clanking and hissing. I have learned to sleep in it, or I would have gone mad long ago.

Sometimes I dream of a cool, clean hand laid upon my forehead.


Stillness: the only sounds are those that I make, tearing them from the silence; the only movement the fall of the snowflakes, or my own arms ploughing through the air as through water.

Sometimes I half believe that I hear the sound of another heartbeat.