The Wistful Saga
The rain in Chicago does not fall so much as it is extracted from the sky, a relentless, gray sludge that coats the pavement and seeps into the pores of the city’s concrete bones. I stand on the corner of State Street, watching the neon sign of the all-night diner flicker, its hum a low, electric drone that vibrates in my teeth. It is three in the morning, the hour when the city holds its...
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