The Golden Farce
The rain does not fall so much as it insists, a cold, persistent gray curtain that blurs the edge of the highway where the asphalt meets the wild, weeping heath, and you drive through it with the wipers beating a frantic, useless rhythm against the glass, your hands steady on the wheel of the sedan that has been your coffin and your cradle for the last thirty years of service, your hands which...
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