The Bright Chord
The factory sounded like music if you knew how to listen. Not the polite, measured music of the concert halls on Michigan Avenue, but something raw and alive--the clanging of presses, the hiss of steam, the rhythmic thumping of pistons that drove the great machines of Chicago's industrial heart. To most workers, it was noise. To Jack Morrison, it was a symphony. He was nineteen years old, born...
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