Sliding up hills, past gum trees, going into swimming pools, superbly blue in the sun and bunched up with leaves, feet pad the new and thick carpet of mansions, inside, against that toweled afternoon. You looked outside the upstairs window and wondered why the concrete looked so glossy and how James got so tanned so quick and there I was, telling Sam how I thought I had dreamed about John McCain but it was actually a small, slightly shrivelled Arthur Russell awkwardly meeting my advancements in conversation.
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