The Golden Farce
The morning the world ended, it did so with the quiet, bureaucratic hum of a photocopier jamming in the sub-basement of the Department of Urban Renewal, a sound that Margaret Holloway had come to associate with the slow, inevitable decay of her own soul. She stood before the machine, a tall, angular woman of forty-three whose posture had long since surrendered the grace of youth in favor of the...
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