The Crystallization of Jack Morrison
The rain in Manhattan does not wash things clean. It makes everything worse. It turns the grime on the streets into a kind of paste, it makes the neon signs bleed their colors onto the pavement, and it makes you feel like the city itself is crying. I did not need the rain to be in a bad mood. I had plenty of reasons already. My name is Jack Morrison. I am thirty-four years old, I served in the...
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