Saturday, October 15, 2016

First Paragraph

The night heat was a violence that reflected up from the pavements, bounced off the stone walls of the city. Sleep was a thing to be trapped and captured on the fire escape, under the still trees in the park. The tires of the cars made a ripping, sticky sound on the asphalt. 

- From The High Gray Walls of Hate, a short story by John D. MacDonald

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