The Wistful Incense
The rain against the window of the forty-second floor was not a sound but a frequency, a low-frequency hum that you felt in the molars before you heard it in the ears, and you stood there with your back to the panoramic view of the grey, wet city, watching the water streak down the glass in a pattern that defied simple geometry, a fractal weeping that mirrored the complex, broken syntax of your...
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