The Faded Frequency
March 14th, 2024 The rain against the window of the holding room at Heathrow does not sound like water, it sounds like static, a low, white-noise hum that has been drilled into the walls of this sterile, fluorescent-lit purgatory for the last six hours, a sound that I have come to associate with the slow, grinding erosion of my own identity, and as I sit here on the hard plastic chair with my...
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