Knob hill food terminal.
Dunno. Something like that.
Eventually became a really nice grocery store.
But still very nice.
Far end of parking lot, fence, train tracks, stumbling late night self proclaimed poetry of youth.
But before the poetry there was the irrational, the absurd, the upsetting of all reality.
Giant piles of dirt sixty feet high.
Is that accurate?
Humungous piles of dirt - one hundred feet high!
That’s not accurate either.
Piles of dirt so vast and piled so high, that they may have been connected to the sanitary septic field of Mount Olympus.
Staggering home from ‘Kung Fu Fridays’ at the Royal, we found ways through the construction barricades and passed through the facade left behind to appease the heritage society and their love of keeping up appearances.
Once through, there they were. The dirt piles.
It was there that we played the greatest game ever invented: Hill Fling
Hill Fling involved climbing to the top of these massive dirt piles and flinging ourselv…
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