Steven walking beside you face set in the pained sneer you recognised from his play, the one where he was mad and drunk and paranoid, except now he isn't acting and Derek is wrapped in a black and white afghan, walking cruel paces ahead of us. You want to put your hands on his shoulders, lift the heavy fog of pain settled there. At least tell him that it will pass. But it wouldn't help. Notice how cold makes things crystal? Notice how we're still there beside the burrito place, music reeling indistinct from the closed Boardwalk?
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