Storyteller

My Ink Stained Fingertips

streets

I often walked the streets in the late afternoon, when the sunlight becomes golden and the shadows reach for me.

There was one street in particular that I frequented.  Behind the shops, branched off from the normal bustle of that city, I would walk until I came across the people who lived there.

Not inside the buildings, but on the streets.

Huddled against walls in the winter to keep a little warmth to themselves or standing in whatever shade they could find to keep cool in the summer.  Their eyes looking up with fear, or mischief, or hate, or emptiness.

I never had much to give them, and I didn’t know what I could do to help.  I’d said as much to a man who lived there, who said his name was Frank, and he’d nodded his head. “Just tell me something to hope for.” he’d said.  There were tears…

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