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Way down south in the District, where the 395 overpass separates rich from poor, there is a world seemingly left behind. There one can see blocks and blocks of condemned apartments, each uniformly nondescript save for the dents and scratches of hardscrabble urban life. In the suburbs, it is possible to tell one cookie-cutter house from the next by the color of SUV out front. Down here, where cars no longer roam, the only clue is the pattern of duct tape on the front door.

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Ghost World
May 2005