A full month passes before I find the man I seek.

On the corner of Atlantic Avenue and Court Street, a brick building willingly shrinking beneath the expectations of its city, this city, a city with no room for (no need for) quaint little buildings like the one before me, a city that sneers at this building with an impatient antipathy, as if in the ecstatic throes of plotting its demolition; and yet, here it is, cowering but existent, determined and petrified and acquiescent all at once.

Before I enter, I cross myself, adjust mytie, and check my watch. None of these acts are necessary, but I do them anyway, if only so that I can remain for a few moments longer outside of the building, determined and petrified and acquiescent all at once.
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