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A basic guitar.
The first time we crossed paths the Euros seemed perfectly normal. The dude, a skinny, shaved-headed individual tugging on a cigarette, and the girl, sitting there quietly on her towel, both feigned interest in our dogs—asking the typical ‘what kind?’ ‘how old?’ and ‘what’s her name?’
. . . → Read More: The Guitar Dude
Vitriol