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I’m in Detroit. Or what I think is Detroit. Wandering around in the rain. I’m in town to play a show and I can’t sleep. Neon lights abandoned Main Street. Restaurants and artist studios nestled between broken glass windows and crumbling bricks. Harbinger or fossil? Hard to tell.
I pass a shaky-looking guy on the street.
“I’m looking for Hinrinson’s,” I say to him.
“Yeah,” he says. “Just walk up the hill, take the right fork and it’ll be right there on your left.”