The Golden Cellar
The rain in Seattle doesn't wash things clean; it just makes the grime slicker, turning the city into a wet, breathing animal that groans under the weight of its own industry. I am not a person, or at least, I have not been one for a very long time, and the distinction is not something I make lightly. I am a keeper of things that do not belong to the world anymore, a ghost in the machine of the...
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