Washington Heights, NYC

Misc.

The rumors are endless and vary by nature. I’ve heard talks of a man being shot dead. Others claim that a native of the area grew up to play in the majors. There was even this one woman who tried valiantly to convince me that there are illegal narcotics being dealt in broad daylight, beneath even the most wary of eyes. What do I expect? What is there to expect, I ask you. That any of this is true – and let everyone know how I’m merely more than a fool for believing? I dare say not. Therein lies the farce which I have so cruelly been force-fed. To hope, then, is all I could really do. Perhaps catch a glimpse of a clenched fist flying through the air, only millimeters away from its destination. Or, I may be dreaming, but would it be completely and utterly insane to think I may meet the next Michael Jordan? to hope, then, is all I could really do.

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