When I managed to go to sleep, my dreams were

disturbed. My usual mash of Arctic ice at first, then

rooms of something like the Winter Palace, but almost see-through,

barely holding together, with ill-fitting doors and hoarfrost on the

doorjambs. I saw myself in one of these rooms. Then

Alix came to visit me, and sat down on the

erect me, and started moving so sweetly, but then complained

I was so abrasively cold, just like a stick of

frozen salmon. Then a slow easing out of sleep. A

sound assurance that my bad dreams were just that — dreams.

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Paraphrases from the novel The Age of Ice by J. M. Sidorova.

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