I sit in the classroom, as the teacher talks. To you, it's boring.
-To me, it's the baseline of an imagined song playing back in my mind.
The bell rings, and the shuffling of feet as we swarm out of the door heralds the end of a school week to my peers.
-But it reminds me of the prison visit to see Marc, and the images flood back in my head like the video that I'm soon to document.
The bus ride home rattles the ears of the grade school students and tempt the older kids to shout louder.
-All the while, a victim of a 1920's gangster is being pushed around a dark holding cell, a pistol in his back, rough hands at his neck.
Finally, as I begin to step off the bus and down my dirt driveway, my white house looms in front of me.
-A young boy searches for a home, but where is it? Is it what it seems? Will he be back on the street? Will his ideas be shunned? His talents stolen? His mind manipulated? Is this the end? Is creativity gone? Here it is, with all the color... faded.