The Wistful Mirror
The iron lungs of the city groan in the pre-dawn dark, a rhythmic, metallic respiration that you have learned to synchronize with your own breathing, a syncopated heartbeat of steam and soot that defines the rhythm of your existence in this industrial sprawl where the air tastes of copper and burnt ozone. You stand at the edge of the platform, your boots caked in the black grime of the lower...
0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 5 Views 0 Anteprima