The Golden Myth
The jar sits on the table. It is cracked. You hold it in your hand. The glass is thin. It weeps a sweet, sticky fluid. Amber. Thick. It smells of honey and rot. You are a man of the law. You wear the badge. The gold is tarnished. You wipe it with your sleeve. It never stays clean. The city is gray. The smoke hangs low. It chokes the light. It chokes the lungs. It chokes the truth. You stand on...
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