The Distant Metropolis
You are standing in the rain, or perhaps you are standing in the memory of the rain, because the water here does not wet you. It falls in silver threads that dissolve before they touch your shoulder, a perpetual, silent weeping that has lasted for three days without you feeling a drop of chill. You are Major Elias Thorne, or at least you were, before the uniform became a phantom limb you could...
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