The Golden Song
You arrive at the glass-walled sanctuary of the firm just as the autumn mist, thick and wet with the memory of rain, begins to dissolve into the grey, indifferent light of a Tuesday morning in London. The air inside is sterile, scrubbed clean of any scent that might suggest the organic, decaying world outside, replaced by the sharp, metallic tang of recycled ozone and the faint, sterile perfume...
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