The Pale Circus
The rain hits the corrugated tin roof of the shelter with a sound like static, a ceaseless, grinding hiss that fills the small, airless room where you sit. You are not alone, but the space is so tight, the air so thick with the smell of wet wool and stale coffee, that you feel the walls pressing in, erasing the boundary between your body and the outside world. You are here because you must be,...
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