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The weight of all the not-said
I'm standing in a library at 7pm, but every book on the shelves has blank pages. Between the covers, though, I hear a faint hum — like someone is breathing just on the other side of the paper. I'm frantically trying to translate that sound into words, but every time I almost grasp it, the library dims. That's it — the whole dream is just that loop of nearly catching something that refuses to be spoken.
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