The Pale Circus
The rain does not fall so much as it presses against the windshield of your rental car, a gray, persistent hand trying to erase the city outside. You are driving north on the interstate, the wipers slapping in a rhythm that feels like a heartbeat you are trying to ignore. The air inside the car is stale, smelling of wet wool and the cheap coffee you bought two hours ago in a gas station that no...
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