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 and they're playin' that scratchy rock and roll beneath the matala moon [OPEN}, super short, v casual, kind of vague
knox
 Posted: Jul 8 2015, 02:34 PM
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basically a ghost
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The fireflies come out for the first time all summer as Adrian is adjusting his glove. He’s stalling on a bench in front of the limestone wall that holds the park and all of its trees together like a big rubber band. Facing the street, Adrian fingers the hem. His palm is sweaty in all the grooves he can’t reach. He remembers a time when he didn’t have to wear them. Gloves. Even this one, white and breathable as it is, is still incubating his fingertips and his knuckles in July’s unrelieved, sultry heat.

Adrian. Quiet. Tall and steady as an oak. Prone to long periods of deep and uninterrupted pondering. He can feel another wave of thought coming on, but his friends are waiting for him on the inside, and he knows he must put his thoughts on the backburner for now. There is woodwind and percussion ringing under the band shell and the sky bidding them all good night.

He slowly approaches the crowd, not from the main road, but from one of the dirt paths etched out in the shrubbery. A folk tune rides the wind, drawing him in before he notices the lanterns swinging beneath the white tent, and the shadows they cast above the dusky grass that floods over West Lake Hill. The silhouettes make him hesitate. He can feel them working against the melody, against the glow they were born of. Adrian steps back and tinkers with the hem of his glove again. There is something very old and dark stirring in Prospect Park.
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