The Faded Sutra
The rain in Seattle does not fall so much as it accumulates, a persistent, dampening fog that settles into the pores of the skin and the fibers of the wool coat, blurring the distinction between the interior of the self and the exterior of the city, a gray and indifferent expanse of wet concrete and weeping eucalyptus trees that stretches out toward a horizon where the sky is merely a slightly...
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