The Bureaucratic Farce
Jack O'Brien sat at his desk on the forty-second floor of a building that had no name, only a number, and he watched the rain fall on Manhattan like a man watching his own life slip away through a window he could not open. It had been raining for three days. Or maybe it had been raining for three years. Time was difficult to track when you spent most of it inside offices that smelled of coffee...
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