The streets are quiet, hushed. Like a patter of rain, the sounds of rolling wheels and a light breeze through the trees. The clack-clack of keyboards, the random sick cough, and the squeal of an old bus coming to a stop, the doors rattling open, and the sound of a paint chip falling to the ground. The memories pass - across the mind, a wave of nausia at first, and then a song. In the memories, the sky is clear like glass, the sun and clouds above the thin sheet separating reality from fiction - and an old man with a cane totters beside a community park. He is wearing a blue hat, and he turns up from the ground and stares hard into my face. He is a wrinkled man, with cheeks burned by the
... read more
