The Wistful Skyline
The fluorescent tubes overhead do not buzz so much as they throb, a low, viscous vibration that seems to resonate in the marrow of your wrists rather than in the air, and you press your palms flat against the steel desk to ground yourself in the physical reality of the subterranean archive, where the damp of the earth presses against the concrete walls like a living thing seeking entry. You are...
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