Junkyard Quote Two Week Five

While lost in the market of Bologna, a tunnel of white tents and Indian men that yell in Italian, I found a park. A place with steps and a fountain, covered in spray paint and history. I lay out my jacket on the dusty grass and settle in for an afternoon of sweat and Gomorrah. Heineken bottles litter the ground, three in a circle with a little liquid left inside. To my right, a couple pulls scarves and prayer rugs out of plastic bags, showing off purchases to each other, anxious to share in the excitement. She bounces up and down trying to pull a new sweater over her head, even though they sit right in the middle of the sun. I shake my head, turn to my left where Lucas lays on his back in the grass, hat on his face, dead to the world.