The Distant Metropolis
The left knee has always been the point of failure, a hinge that rusts in the rain and swells in the heat, a joint that remembers every stumble and every forced march even when the mind tries to forget the path taken to get there, and now, standing in the center of the town hall square with the autumn air biting at my exposed skin, I feel that familiar ache pulsing in time with the heartbeat of...
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