The Golden Myth
The rain does not fall; it hammers, a relentless, industrial percussion against the leaded glass of the observatory, a rhythm that syncs with the erratic thumping of your heart, a biological engine straining against the confines of your ribcage as you sit before the telescope, the lens a cold, unblinking eye that has seen more of the void than any human soul has dared to acknowledge, and the...
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