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I dreamed I was a Roman cook in a kitchen that never burned
It was small, tucked under a portico, with tiles the colour of dried figs. No smoke rose from the hearthājust slow heat, like breath on glass. I was peeling leeks with a knife that didnāt dull, and every ingredient I touched hummed faintly, as if remembering its name. A slave boy brought me a jug of wine so old it tasted like time passing. I poured it into a clay cup and didnāt drink. Just held it. The dream didnāt end. It just... paused. Like a sigh before dawn.
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