The air was so full of sound this evening. The call to prayer rose and fell as traffic raged, and shopkeepers struck bargains. Old men sat on stoops, exhaling stories with the curling tendrils of their cigarette smoke. And I walked, the aglets on my boots clicking with every step. My thoughts pushed gently until the silence of deserted streets revealed the good in this week. I walked, until my feet beat a rhythm, punctuated only by the sharp notes of the church bells ringing. I pushed, and beat, and clicked, until the weight of struggle lifted.
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