The Distant Promise
The rain does not fall so much as it is expelled from the sky, a violent, horizontal sheet of gray water that turns the blacktop of Route 9 into a mirror for the shattered moon, and you stand there in the middle of the empty stretch, your boots sinking into the mud that has begun to collect in the ruts, feeling the cold seep up through the soles and into your bones, a slow, creeping tide of...
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