At 6:15 on a January morning, Lincoln Avenue is cold and dark and quiet. The 15 minute walk to the Fullerton Red Line station is an almost mystical experience of sensations, like the sight of two collided cars, mangled from their impact with one another, resting motionless in the southbound lane. The drivers left long ago; snow and ice cover both windshields. Tempted to pause and examine the scene, I think better of it. Instead, I quickly look up and down the street, across and behind, but find no witnesses and walk on.

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