The Golden Downtown
The rain in Duluth does not fall; it accumulates. It sits upon the slate roof of the holding cell, a heavy, grey weight that presses against the glass until the world outside becomes a blurred, watery smear. You are sitting on the metal bench, your knees drawn up, your boots polished to a mirror sheen that reflects the flickering fluorescent tube above. The light is bad. It makes your face look...
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