The Sisyphus of Silk
Mark lived in the grey geometry of the Industrial District, a place where the sky was the color of a bruised plum and the wind tasted of iron. He was a line-worker at the loom-mills, his life a repetitive loop of shuttle-throws and clock-punches. He was a man of habits, a creature of the rhythm, his identity subsumed by the mechanical heartbeat of the factory. The windfall came in the form of a...
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