THE RECLAMATION OF STONE
The rain in New York does not wash things clean. It only makes the soot slicker, turns the cobblestones into rivers of oil and mud. I stood on the sidewalk outside the building on Wall Street and watched the gas lamps flicker through the downpour, their yellow haloes dissolving into the fog that rolled off the Hudson like the breath of something ancient and dying. Inside, on a steel cot in the...
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