The Golden Suspect
The fog that rolls in from the estuary is not merely a meteorological event, but a living, breathing entity that swallows the iron ribs of the city whole, erasing the distinction between the soot-stained cobblestones and the grey heavens above, until one exists in a state of suspended animation, a ghost wandering through the carcass of an empire that has long since ceased to breathe. You stand...
0 Comments 0 Shares 16 Views 0 Reviews