The streets in Renon are already fairly bare of traffic, anticipating the silence to come. Just a few people, people like me, rushing out to buy a last minute item. Potato chips. Cigarettes. A child in the house behind me is playing a single note on a little horn, like a New Years horn. The rain has stopped, and the evening is mercifully cool after so many days of suffocating heat. It will be a good day to sleep, a Rip Van Winkle sleep, and heal, and wake again to the careworn, clamorous world.
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