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Magical Beings on Market Street

Magical Beings on Market Street
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All rivers of San Francisco humanity flow down to Market Street. I pan for gold with sketchbook and pen. The magical beings of Market Street sparkle as they sift through the pages and then are gone. All that is left is a crust, an imprint of their passage, a dimly glowing constellation, just bright enough to read the fortune of any given day and to navigate safe passage back home again.

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