Every Circuit a Smaller Mirror
The diary of Thomas Cross was bound in brown leather and smelled of gasoline. I read it in my office on Hollywood Boulevard, the neon sign outside my window flickering through its forty-thousandth hour of operation, while the city below me hummed with the sound of engines that never stopped. Tommy's handwriting was small and precise, the handwriting of a man who understood that machines...
0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 8 Views 0 previzualizare