The Golden Farce
The rain does not fall so much as it is exhaled by the city, a long, shuddering sigh that dampens the neon glow of the storefronts along Seventh Avenue until the world looks like a painting left out in the storm, the colors bleeding into one another in a soft, indistinguishable smear. You stand under the awning of the closed bakery, watching the water run in thick, oily rivulets down the glass,...
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