"I'm talking to my friend Nick, guy to guy, thirty-three stories above Boston in a swank eating establishment known as the Bay Tower Room. Seated among stiff Brahmin lawyers, Nick wears a spiffy blue blazer and a somewhat psychedelic holiday tie, a beacon of his foppish charm. He's a Renaissance mana pianist, computer genius, primo baseball player, amateur astronomer, lady-killer. And he's eight years old."
"When our shrimp cocktail arrives, Nick reaches to an inside pocket and produces . . . a wand! Nick is a son of friends, and it's not unusual for us to get together, do stuff. Wherever Nick is, you'll usually find a deck of cards and some other slyly pocketed props of the blackest craft. So he does a couple of tricks. Birds of a feather. A disappearing dollar bill. He's got the perfect mix of pizzazz and talent."
A man sits thirty-three stories above Boston with an eight-year-old magician named Nick, observing his charm and tricks. Nick produces a wand and performs card tricks, embodying childlike wonder and playful skill. The man feels melancholic and asks where 'abracadabra' has gone. The loss of magic is linked to broader cultural shifts, including Nietzsche's proclamation of God's death and the erosion of faith, honor, idealism, love, sex, and family. Contemporary life offers pharmaceuticals, herbal remedies, and therapy as remedies. The scene contrasts youthful enchantment with adult cynicism and diminished wonder.
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