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February 9, 2019
It feels like the twilight zone, especially on weekends. People in Greenfield are moving about in a daze, unsure if it's Saturday or nearly Monday. Taxi drivers are shaking their heads because no one's decided to come home yet. Everybody is at a McDonald's. A rave party. Grimace is on the floor, he's color green. There is fog creeping in, settling at knee level. What time is it? 1 a.m.? 7 p.m.? The trains are coming nonstop, one even tried to navigate the stairs, and passengers came tumbling out, laughing. Amid the smoke, the faint voice of Madonna.