The Distant Garden
The rain hit the asphalt with a rhythmic, metallic tick. It was a sound that never changed. I stood on the corner of 5th and Main. The streetlights hummed. They were old gas lamps. Or maybe electricity. It did not matter. The light was yellow. It was always yellow. I looked at my hands. They were steady. They had to be steady. I was a man of precision. I was a clockmaker. Or a watchmaker. I...
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