Music Director

Thunder boomed and blasted me in Boston while rain slashed its arrows at my wind-whipped frame. A slim biker wearing a yellow slicker and a conquering smile surged through the stormy intersection steering one-handed. Lightning snapped and stretched out her skeleton fingers in a brief crescendo now and again, now and again. The pedaler hooted at the Wagnerian Fury, and sang his own hallelujah salvo directing the music with his free hand.

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