The apple is cold and smooth in the palm of my hand. It tastes of pale green glass as clear as ice. This is what the King wants. The proverbial apple.
I don't know why I have it. But it is not meant for him.
When it falls it catches the light and spins and spins. When it breaks, clean in two, there is no sound. The two pieces lie on the ground, still beautiful, still perfect.
There are kings that are demons and angels who are carved of black rock and have silver lights for veins.
But the dream ends there and confuses itself as I wake.
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