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68 Eros and Dust Sun touches the tin of hand cream on her nightstand, and he feels the soft bones of their bed, its cartilage bracing them near the wall. The bed like a drawbridge and sleep carrying them across it. With his arm draped around her, after she’s gone quiet, he feels like a king growing old inside his castle. Rather than being devoured by some myth, he’s drifting far from the scythes in his fields, the dust from his stables—safe within a moat that can’t be crossed. ...

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