The Faded Ruin
You wear the coat. It is gray. It is thin. You know it is wrong. The fabric clings to your skin like a second layer of flesh. It does not breathe. It does not warm. It only marks you. You stand in the queue. The line stretches down the block. It winds around the corner. It disappears into the fog. The air is cold. It bites your nose. It stings your eyes. You do not blink. Blinking is a waste of...
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