One minute later, I watched one violently bonk some poor guy in the middle of his head. A few people hooted and hollered. Its placard sat unread and unregarded next to the porta shitters. The final straw for my mostly numb curiosity was a pallet of the stuff going by me that was Gronk-flavored and -branded. It elicited absolutely no reaction whatsoever. The Biscayne House was the first building in Miami Beach. Now it was chaos incarnate, covered in corporate brands and littered with signs of emotional and spiritual shipwreck as far as the eye could see. A keeper and usually his family lived in a house in remote coastal Florida and woke up every day to walk the coast while looking for signs of a shipwreck.
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