The Distant Metropolis
The room smells of burnt sugar and stale beer, a thick, cloying haze that clings to the back of your throat. You are standing in the center of the living room, surrounded by the soft, shuffling bodies of your colleagues from the data entry firm. It is the annual end-of-year gala, or rather, the excuse for the annual end-of-year drinking session. The air is warm, almost humid, with the...
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