The Wistful Skyline
The rain does not fall so much as it hangs, a suspended grey curtain that erases the horizon and binds the world to the immediate, wet stone beneath your boots. You are walking, and you have been walking for so long that the act has ceased to be a journey and become a rhythm of survival, a steady drumbeat in your chest that echoes the pounding of the thunder above. The air is thick with the...
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