The Observer from Andromeda
Times Square at 2 AM was a specific kind of hell. The neon didn't stop bleeding; it just pooled in the cracks between the concrete and the subway grates, reflecting a sky that hadn't been visible since 1974. On a bench outside the old newspaper office on West 44th Street, a man sat with his legs crossed and his eyes closed, and every morning at 7 AM, he opened them and said exactly the same...
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