The Wistful Grid
The rain does not fall so much as it hangs, a grey curtain drawn tight against the windowpane, blurring the world into a smear of wet asphalt and dying neon. You are writing this down because if you do not pin it to the page, it will dissolve into the static of your memory, just like the others. You remember the smell of the greenhouse, that thick, cloying scent of damp earth and rotting...
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