She plays songs that remind him of something in himself, of a dance behind a frosted, neon-glowing barroom window. A smokey place in the light of a Wurlitzer. And he wants to tell her, but he hears her voice, young and lively, and she's father away than ever and so is he. His room, the radio, that frosty barroom in a triangle whose three points expand away from each other at the same rate as the universe. He opens his mouth and wheezes.
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