This is what happens to you since you move here: you grow hard. Your soul, sharpened on the treeless sidewalks, the glaring lights, the thumping music that takes you from day into night and back again. Your eyes, narrowed against the abandoned cars, stolen and crashed and stowed here on the Berkeley-Oakland border, hoods stripped to reveal the guts inside, seats pushed forward so thieves can take what they can grab.
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