The Crystallization of Frank Coleman
Frank Coleman had always thought of himself as water. Not the poetic kind—not the ocean, not the river, not the rain that farmers prayed for and poets wrote about. Just ordinary tap water, filling whatever container he was poured into. The factory poured him into line four, station seven, and there he stayed for twenty-three years, tightening the same bolt on the same part of the same car that...
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