The Wistful Saga
The rain on the windshield of your transport vehicle is not water. It is a fine, grey mist that tastes of ozone and old iron, a weather system that exists only in the margins of the real world. You are driving a black sedan through the streets of a city that looks like Chicago but feels like a memory of it, the skyscrapers slightly blurred at the edges as if painted with a wet brush. Your hands...
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