The Golden Circuit
The coal dust settles in the crevices of your knuckles, a gray powder that mimics the dust of the years you have lost. You sit in the corner of the room, the only light coming from the single gas lamp that sputters and hisses against the damp November air. It is late. The city outside is a machine of iron and steam, grinding on, indifferent to the small, quiet deaths that occur in rooms like...
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