The Golden Maze
The inland delta wakes with the grind of engines and the smell of wet clay, where the cypress knees rise from the black water like the knuckles of buried giants. In the border town of Omu, the air tastes of rust and rot, a thick fog that clings to the skin of the Ferry Slip, one hundred and nine of the Ferry Slip, where the auction house clears its debts before the sun clears the trees. I am...
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