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Claire

There’s this stretch of Larrabee Road where the stop signs have all been turned north-south by enterprising souls and all the streetlights disabled, which keeps the traffic down. Claire likes it. The smell of cold french fries has taken up residence in the car’s ventilation system, but it’s not unpleasant, and the heater halfway works.

Claire burned a mix of shoegaze and wordless ennui and hasn’t taken it out of the player yet. She won’t, as long as it works.

You can coast a lot longer than you’d expect, on flat ground, once you take your foot off the pedal.

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