The Distant Metropolis
The river does not care for our arguments. It flows with a slow, muscular patience, carrying the silt of centuries toward a sea we cannot see. I sit on the mossy bank, the damp chill of the ancient oak trees seeping through my wool trousers, watching the water slip beneath the rotting planks of the old footbridge. It is a place of perpetual twilight, the canopy so thick that the sun is merely a...
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