People, walking across the square. Going somewhere - each with a goal in mind. Some, few, without. a goal, just walking about, flaneurs of the social. Utopian explorers.
They all woke up that morning. Woke up, saw whatever was there to be seen, got up, made their way through the morning, got out to the square.
What do they see, first thing in the morning? What route takes them from morning to here, the square, this collection of people who may or may not be aware of each other's presence?
Are they real?
What stories can they tell? What stories do they want to tell? And what stories of theirs do we need to hear in order to make sense of our own, disjointed, out of focus narrative of what we do when we wake up, every morning?
Where do they go? Where do the people and their stories lead to?
Is it possible to come along, if only for a moment or two?
What stories would the square itself tell, if only it had a mind to tell them? Or someone willing to listen?
What goes through the hearts and minds of those we share our lives with? And why do we so seldom hear their stories?
And why do they hesitate to tell them?
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