The Wistful Voyage
The rain does not fall so much as it hangs in the air, a suspended grey curtain that blurs the edges of the highway and swallows the headlights of the trucks passing in the opposite lane, creating a world where the distinction between the asphalt and the sky is erased by a persistent, wet indifference. You are driving the old station wagon, the one your mother kept in the garage for thirty...
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