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That night we slept on the floor of Kirk and Maggie’s apartment and listened to them arguing all night about art and life and love. Ah, me, I sighed, the sad soul of America! I thought of Walt Whitman. I thought of Allen Ginsberg.
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Wyatt and Rosie sat on the front steps of the building. He grumbled as he flipped through the pages of the newspaper, and then spat on the sidewalk. “Wyatt!” Rosie said sharply, “Knock it off. That's disgusting and unhealthy!” “ I can't…
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