The Distant Joke
The sky tore open above the Iron Ridge, a jagged scar of violet and black that bled into the twilight. You stood on the precipice, your boots caked in the red clay of the valley floor, and watched the lightning strike the telegraph pole. It did not just spark; it shattered the iron into a shower of molten glass that hissed as it hit the dry grass. The wire, that thin, humming vein of the modern...
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