The Distant Garden
You are walking, though you have not moved your feet for a long time, because the road is made of the same gray wool as your uniform, and the sky above you is the pale, washed-out blue of a shirt that has been bleached too many times in the industrial laundry of the state. You are a Lieutenant in the Department of Public Aesthetics, a title that sounds more like a job in a theater costume shop...
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