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The wind blew through his curly black hair as he blew into his saxophone, standing on the boardwalk listening to the sounds of the beach. He had been playing in this spot for years, and the sound to him was like an old shoe. The kind of memory that he could not throw away despite how useless it was. His saxophone case was nearly empty of the coins and bills that it usually contained. Tourist season had ended, and like the birds, everyone had migrated elsewhere for the winter months.
There was a chill on the air coming off the ocean. The man pu
by `spunj13
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