The Wistful Voyage
The rain does not fall so much as it is imposed upon you, a heavy, rhythmic drumming against the glass of the patrol car that you are driving through the fog-drenched streets of a city that seems to have no end, a labyrinth of wet brick and neon reflection where the boundary between the solid world and the memory of it has begun to dissolve into a gray, suffocating mist that clings to your skin...
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