The Wistful Show
The rain in Chicago does not fall so much as it is exhaled by the city, a grey, persistent sigh that settles into the marrow of the bones and the fabric of the coats, turning the streets into slick, black mirrors that reflect the fractured lights of a world I am no longer sure I belong to, and I stand here in the narrow corridor of the precinct, my fingers wrapped around the cold brass of the...
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