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under your wool blanket

I remember the way the wool blanket felt against my skin – not warm, not welcoming. But the weight it provided, cast over my body like the gentle wrappings of a mummified pharaoh, kept me rooted to the sofa. I do not know why it smelled of sage, or what pattern arose between each grey-and-green stitch, but I know that I could have slept beneath it forever and never have produced a single dream.
The fire I stared at was blue from every angle except for mine. My head against the pillow led sleep into my eyes like a weary shepherd, painting each finger of flame purple as my eyelids descended and my lashes caught fire, like birthday candles.

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