His collection of Campbell and Jung held a prominent spot on his bookshelf, and on the rare nights when the parking lot was quiet, he lay in his bunk and read of the characters that populated dreams and legends: kings and peasants, giants and gnomes, gods come down to earth in the guise of serpents and great birds. He’d come to recognize the Shinto priest and the African Bushman, the ancient Pima Indians and Noah and his sons as no different from the leathered punk in the mosh pit or the hipster who sulked in the shadows of English Acid. They must all in the end come to terms with love and
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