There is a fable that once upon a time, right after the town-clock struck midnight, the gangsters gathered in the town-hall and fired pistols at moon. The suburban sky lit up, the stars faded in the brilliant firework and a sweet smell of sulfur filled the damp night air. The moon bled silver that night. The gunshots rhymed. The bats fluttered back and forth through the bullet holes in sky and sang:

“Watch out. The gangsters make symphony tonight!”

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