All summer, he saw violence and parties. There were fights at the parties, and parties at the fights. “I was too young to be in that scene,” he admitted, and his only good memory was of an older pretty neighborhood girl who pinched his cheek and called him “little cutie.” Otherwise he learned of neither art nor philosophy, and only of how it felt to be an outcast, which to him meant, “I didn’t feel comfortable. I didn’t feel right.” There were bonfires in the gravel pits and he got high, and stared at the flames and the dust.
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