The Faded Road
The rain in Chicago does not fall so much as it hangs, a suspended gray curtain that blurs the edges of the city into a single, trembling smear of wet concrete and rusted steel, and I stood on the precipice of the fire escape of my fourth-floor apartment, watching the droplets race down the windowpane in erratic, frantic lines, mirroring the chaotic, accelerating rhythm of my own heart, which...
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