Everything remained the same, unchanged over the months since our last coming, a chill air of mid-spring swirling around us as we took the stroll to the green merry-go-round building and then to the casino, all still in disrepair, like the bones of some prehistoric creature nobody wants to acknowledged existed, as off the beach, in those vacant places where old clubs once thrived, yellow dinosaurs dig up the earth, or deposit massive lava flows of concrete, foundation of a new era in which we who remember the past will have no place, we, the extinct species who still ache for what once was, knowing it will never be again. The chill discouraged others from coming out, or perhaps fear of pending rain. One couple we met had stopped here on their way from Atlantic City to their home in Bloomfield, to rest, to pay homage, having lived through that age when music filled the streets, along with the rumble of hotrods along Thunder Road, the ghosts of those giants hovering nearby in t...
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