The Golden Maze
The city does not wake so much as it exhales, a long, gray sigh that settles over the rooftops of a metropolis that refuses to name its own era, where the glass towers reflect a sky that has been bruised purple for days and the streets are slick with a rain that feels less like water and more like the condensation of a collective, unspoken grief. You are walking, you have always been walking,...
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