Baader-Meinhof Gruppe, they are called also.” “Yes. - Jonathan Lethem

I jotted the name down mentally on that tattered notepad I call a memory. The pen skipped.

If. If Mingus Rude could be kept in this place, kept somehow in Dylan's pocket, in his stinging, smudgy hands, then summer wouldn't give way to whatever came after. If. If. Fat chance. Summer on Dean Street had lasted one day and that day was over, it was dark out, had been for hours. The Williamsburg Savings Bank tower clock read nine-thirty in red-and-blue neon. Final score, a million to nothing. The million-dollar kid.
Your school wasn't on fire, you were.

I'm learning to hate the sound of my own voice.