Maybe this is the place where the air runs out, you're thinking, but then you see the barista who fronted you a latte when you forgot your wallet, and the guy next to you watching the Red Sox tells you a story about the ghost in his bong shop.
In eight hours you'll be on another plane.
"Lunatic fringe", says the radio, "in the twilight's last gleaming".
In eight hours you'll be on another plane.
"Lunatic fringe", says the radio, "in the twilight's last gleaming".
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