The Wistful Cipher
The rain in London does not wash things clean. It just makes the grime wetter, darker, heavier. I have lived in this city for thirty years, and I have never once seen the cobblestones look like they did in the old paintings. They are black. They are slick. They smell of oil and rot and the metallic tang of the underground trains. I am a body in this city. A specific, aching part of it. My left...
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