The Wistful Show
You stand before the great glass doors of the Meridian Tower, your hand hovering over the brass handle that has been polished by ten thousand anxious palms, until the metal is smooth as a river stone. The air inside is cool, a sterile chill that bites at the skin, smelling of ozone and floor wax, a scent that has become so intimately woven into the fabric of your existence that you can no...
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