Past my place, people line east or north but not far, half a block. That gets them to Victoria Park and the folk festival where, this afternoon, I heard Serena Ryder, an artist I respect. (Because she does not over-venerate at the shrine Original Composition (though she's written her share).)
I face, west, bright off cars, the sparkin lot between here and the Court House. I've looked here before, over parking lots and alleys before. I don't know why I don't just say it: this singular scene, this west not east or north, is what I'm out for.
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