The other people.

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I’m the other part, the significant one of a Springsteen fan.

Do you know this one? Come on you gotta know this one. Listen to the intro! Listen to Max! you gotta be kidding me.

For me Bruce Springsteen is something like this: spread out in his room, actually a fallout shelter from the world, the walls full of posters, concert tickets, sports stickers, records and books, and me tryin’ to catch a title just from the drum and a breathless One-Two-Three!!!

It’s guessing the difficult, the very difficult song, the one he’ll never bet I’ll recognize. It’s knowing he’ll foresee which verse I remember of a song, and why.

It’s a birthday card with a nonsense personalized version of Growin’ up, it’s a lot of smiles, sometimes very big smiles, sometimes a little pain.

It’s the strenght of a passion that is not mine, but still, somewhere deep inside of me, it’s me.

It’s some inexplicable tears shed in a stadium bright with lights, it’s a thousand travels with this constant soundtrack in the background.

It’s some notes and lyrics that intertwined somehow compose a story that is ours. It’s him, and me.

And probably nothing more, nothing less than your lives, too.

 

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