There were tiny jars of light and a picture that flickered leaning against the leg of a bench.
He was part of a group holding other lights and there were those in hoodies or wraps or badly put-on makeup, and they were were quiet, or quietly crying in the smelling cold.
Some were in the curb, or on the road, or leaning on each other, shoulder to shoulder, arm on shoulder; and it was foggy and the streetlights burned in the fog like it had just rained.
The picture couldn't say another word and there was no emotion left, to stand, or sit, or kneel, or pray, there was just a village stranded.
Life is an array of lights that burn against pictures. There are too many smokey days.