The Golden Crossing
The sky splits open. It does not tear like cloth. It fractures like ice. You are standing in the middle of the street. The cobblestones are wet. Not from rain. From blood. Or maybe oil. The light is yellow. Sickly. Industrial. It hums in your teeth. You look down. Your hands are covered in gold. It is not paint. It is not dust. It is a substance. Thick. Viscous. It clings to your skin. It...
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