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The body stuck between rows of tagged buildings strides over the steaming manhole covers, the sidewalks, the creaks of the fissured ground and the cracks of the drugged-out bums, the rusty metal arcs above the river and beneath a polluted sky, but soon to be starry. On a summer evening, while they are passing the time on the riverbank, an old and mysterious drunk poet quietly approaches to whisper to Cassady and his friends two lines of poetry.