During the summer of ‘63, the shantytown mirrored the night sky.
Each hovel tended a fire, and in the blackness between the river and the Central Park, these points
of light were a veritable galaxy. Desperation fueled the flames—hope burning
bright, yielding little more than ghostly smoke. But like a star to the Sun,
these feeble hearths were dim compared to the menacing glow downtown.
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