The Golden Farce
The rain in Seattle did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a suspended grey mist that clung to the skin like a second, heavier layer of reality. It was the kind of weather that erased the sharp edges of the city, turning the glass towers of the financial district into smudged charcoal sketches on a damp canvas. In the basement of a condemned textile factory on Pike Street, where the damp...
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