There is only one hill in Chicago.
On top stands an anemic corpse of a house, raccoons and rats having long since replaced the family who lived there. Holes in the roof expose what was a teenager's bedroom, ceiling and walls plastered with faded flyers. An adolescence spent at all-night parties, a bed seldom slept in. The basement smells of sweat and stale smoke, even after all these years. Its checkered floor is riddled with gaping holes where it was literally danced through, its walls a tapestry of cardboard screenprinted posters harvested from street poles. In the center of the room strains a single wooden post, a forgotten Atlas supporting the decomposing structure above. Carved on it is a lone sign of the hoards of energetic teenagers and raucous parties once rocking the place:
M + M.
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