Golden Hour in Queue 17

Golden Hour in Queue 17

The waiting room of the Magistrat on a late October afternoon was not merely ugly; it was a perfect machine for the slow dissolution of human dignity. At 5:14 PM the setting sun forced its way through the high, grime-streaked windows and spilled a thick, golden light across the rows of molded plastic chairs. The light was not beautiful. It was viscous, heavy with floating dust and the particulate remains of decades of bureaucratic breathing. It made everything look expensive and already dead.