The Wistful Grid
The rain in this part of the world does not fall so much as it persists, a grey curtain drawn tight against the windows of the Ministry of Urban Renewal. I sit at my desk, the third one from the window in the fourth-floor corridor, and watch the water streak the glass in slow, deliberate lines. It is a building of glass and steel, a monolith that rises from the mud of the district, claiming to...
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