A woman walks along the street in Barcelona. She is crying quietly, but she does not allow the sadness to infect her walk, or posture, her quiet outward display of inward emotions. It is her contorted face, streams of unwipable tears that give her secret away.
A child, her child I assume, walks by her side, hand in her hand, eyes directed forwards staring into an infinity of the street ahead of her. The child stares into the future and the past.
Besides the woman walks a man, I guess her younger brother. He can see the cars and pedestrians and bicycles that are invisible to those he walks with. He is in the present. He is The Rock.
The woman pushes open the door of Burger King. They exit the street, and enter the fast food joint. Comfort food.
Another story, in another life that you and I will never know.
A child, her child I assume, walks by her side, hand in her hand, eyes directed forwards staring into an infinity of the street ahead of her. The child stares into the future and the past.
Besides the woman walks a man, I guess her younger brother. He can see the cars and pedestrians and bicycles that are invisible to those he walks with. He is in the present. He is The Rock.
The woman pushes open the door of Burger King. They exit the street, and enter the fast food joint. Comfort food.
Another story, in another life that you and I will never know.
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