The Wistful Skyline
The rain does not fall so much as it remembers how to fall, striking the hood of your car with a rhythmic, wet percussion that sounds like knuckles rapping on a coffin lid. You are driving. You have been driving for hours, perhaps days. Time has lost its linear integrity here, stretching and snapping like old rubber. The dashboard light cuts a pale, sickly cone through the mist, illuminating...
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