I drive down one-way side streets, yearning for a terminal, ceaselessly scanning the dilapidated buildings: once cherished night life destinations.
Sudden sharp turn onto Cary Street. The allure? Promises of community, belonging, and holiday cheer.
Stepping out of my caravan of comfort, notes from classical violin saturates crisp December air. Vibrations bombard ear drums without direction, inundating unsuspecting passersby, tear-evoking bliss makes her cry.
I mosey over to the violinist, who stands performing musical masterpieces on the sidewalk in front of Cancan.
Can I do this? I think I can, I think I can.
Walking with common sense jingling in pockets and the social confidence of Great White shark, who is never opposed to flashing her great pearly white teeth, I sit beside the violinist, give him a smile, and rest on the curb and observe for a while.
Scanning his lanky body up and down, I notice his awkward…
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