Some voices sang out against the intrusion, but they were drowned out or beaten back by what had at midday become a mob.
"Where are we supposed to go?" Street asked. I looked around, and really for the life of me couldn't give a clear answer.
"I s'pose were s'posed to get into one of these doorways." My motions only swelled the confusion, my hands swirled round to any number of indentions along Main Street. All glorious truth be told, had some unseen eye seen: I was already ducked into the nearest portico.
We watched blindly. We watched and recognized what we were watching. We tried to turn the channel, but every lens was focused on that blight.
I massaged my neck, my nerve spot, that spot that had grown from constant irritation. A product of my index finger's infatuation, grown nearly a 1/4 inch since the week began. And here I was on holiday. Waking up in the morning feeling more alive with that swelling mound -- pining for the days when pitching tents was noddable.
Don't ask me cuz I just don't know.