Jamie Crepeau Just Play Basketball If you have a friend who burns imagination at the stake, do not speak with wide eyes and shooting stars in your tongue about mentally forged monsters and magic spells. Spare yourself from the manufactured shame of barbed hyena cackling and return to the flat driveway, keep those stories and games as lighthouses in your cerebral trenches while bouncing a hollow rubber sphere until sunset elongates your shadows like an unrolled extension cord. Wait a few more weeks to see cardboard signs and wooden tables fill their yard, covered by toys with barely a scratch in their plastic or paint. Some of them are still in their boxes.
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