The Echoes of Silent Howls
The rain in Los Angeles did not cleanse; it merely glazed the filth in a shimmering, deceptive lacquer. I had walked these streets for decades, watching the neon signs bleed their electric violets and sulfurous yellows into the asphalt, a chromatic hemorrhage that mirrored the city's own decay. Nothing ever changed. The cycle of grime and rain was the only absolute truth. Rex, my companion in...
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