The Pale Meridian
The rain in Manchester has a way of finding the gaps in your armor, the specific, hollowed-out places where the soul used to be, and I felt it seeping into the wet wool of my coat as I walked the grey, endless stretch of Deansgate, the pavement slick with a mixture of diesel fumes and the cold, metallic taste of a city that never quite woke up but never fully slept either. I was running, or...
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