The Golden Farce
The dream does not begin with light, but with the smell of wet iron and old paper. You are standing in the rotunda of the General’s Office, a circular room in the center of the capital’s administrative wing, built in the late Victorian era with heavy oak beams and stained glass that filters the morning into a bruised, purple hue. The floor is worn smooth by decades of boots, the grain of the...
0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews