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  • I live in a concrete jungle and I love it, but today Ray Bradbury passed away and I find myself staring out the window thinking about summertime happening out there. He may be remembered for his fantastical stories, for books burning, for Martians, but I will always remember him for this secret story of summer.

    Never has summertime been more accurately described, in the long hazy days, in the deepening evening when the world to a 12-year old is grand and mysterious. I look outside at my streetscapes, at the endless parade of cars but all I really see are dandelions tilted in the sun.
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