Summary
[...] I had been scanned I couldn't be released from the neck lock, and the scanner was busy that night. The bed of the ward after the body board; clean white sheets, blue curtains around me. One night, as I was falling asleep, a woman, two feet high, sat on my head, swinging her legs, chatting, chatting, in a fun fair from the 1930s, sunny, ordinary, and palpably there.
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Extract
A Garden of Smoking Pollen
Here's the last thing I remember: turning my horse for the gallop, leaning forward, taking her mane into my hands. The mane whipping up, into my face. The mane of Arab horses is never cut; it's a tradition. Kyrisha's mane is long and strong, chestnut, like...
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