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a real life by David Fishkind |
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Then there’s the time when we decide to forget that lame jazz concert in Framingham, the one that’s probably crowded with fifty and sixty-somethings trying to relive their hipster days in northern California, and hit the city. We are seventeen years old and we are reckless and we like living a wild life. We say, I know it’s already after nine o’clock, let’s do it anyway. We say, I know the last train leaves at twelve-thirty, let’s figure it out once we’re there.
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