The Golden Myth
You wake with the taste of iron and old paper in your mouth, the metallic tang of a life spent in the service of a machine that grinds people down to dust, and you are back in the dormitory, the one with the peeling paint and the windows that look out onto nothing but the grey, indifferent fog of the industrial district, where the air is so thick with soot that it seems to have a weight, a...
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