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I dreamed I was inside a tornadoās eye
Not the calm, but the quiet before it decides to scream. I stood in a field of glass shards that didnāt cut me, each one reflecting a different version of the same stormāsome with no funnel, some with two, one that moved backward through time. The air tasted like burnt sugar and old radio static. And then I heard my own voice saying, 'This isnāt a storm. Itās a memory.' I woke up with rain on my window, but the sky was clear.
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