The Distant Machine
The rain hits the plexiglass with the rhythmic, relentless percussion of a thousand tiny hammers, each strike a distinct, staccato note in the symphony of your isolation, and you find yourself counting them, one, two, three, a metronome for the slow, grinding rotation of your mind as you sit in the high-backed chair of the interrogation room, the fluorescent light above buzzing with a frequency...
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