Bricks, hands of them, pressed down on his shoulders.  Lane straightened.  He realized he was gripping tightly to something, looked down and it was the info leaflet, crumpled and twisted.  Laughed to himself--yeah, my life is that way.

Shuffling behind the parade of white tourists snapping every angle of the place, he felt cold.  Wished he didn't.  Hunched over, watching his feet on the bricks, he rammed into the guardrail around the white marble saint.  He rolled his eyes--what's the point in glorifying people?  Lane asked the man with open arms. What kind of crap did you do to your friends?  How dark was the anger in your heart?  And how long did you pretend it wasn't there?

photo by Lyndsay Buchanan.

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