The Pale Altar
You are standing in the rain, or perhaps you are merely remembering the rain, for the water here is not wet but a kind of heavy, gray static that presses against the skin like the gaze of an unseen crowd, and the streetlights are not bulbs but eyes that have been bored into the fog, staring with a dull, yellow indifference at the wet asphalt that mirrors your own disheveled face, a face that...
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