Wednesday, April 18, 2007

Spadina streetcar, home early with a sore throat.

Caucasian male, mid 20s, with short brown hair and beard, wearing a green cord jacket, rumpled brown cotton pants and a grey fleece hat.

Three Day Road, Joseph Boyden (Penguin Canada)

Page 272:

Later, he tells me that he hums to himself a song that's become popular with the soldiers. He can't hear what he hums over the noise, just feels the vibration of the song in his chest. Everything shakes so badly he wonders how it is that the world keeps from falling apart.

He puts the book down, his chest heavy and rubs his brow. His mouth hangs open, his lips tight. He shuts his eyes and turns his head from the woman next to him. A swollen whitehead sits at the base of his tense neck. I want to reach forward, to tell him that they're on my mind too. We don't know them. We don't know. But we've seen and read too much not to picture them crawling across the floor, arms over their heads, eyes seeking a last frame, some compassion, some safety--dignity and forgiveness--before the gunman opens fire.

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