The opium den in Whitechapel was not a place one visited by choice. It was a place one fell into, the way one falls into debt or into love or into any other activity that promises to make you forge...
On this particular evening—the 14th of November, 1893, a Thursday in a year that felt like a lifetime compressed into a single breath—Julian was high on the kind of vision that came only to those who had been smoking long enough to understand that the boundary between hallucination and insight was thinner than the skin of an onion. He saw the stars. Not the stars as astronomers saw them—points...
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