Camila feels the heartbeat of the street, vibrating the beat of the revolution into her heart through the bulletproof glass.
It is music! It is torture! It is a symphony of unrest!
Our protagonist, clutches herself and patiently listens, to the sound of her people. Tiny dancer. Private dancer. Exotic dancer.
It reminds her of her faraway homeland in the orient... Brooklyn. There is no peace, no answer, to this relentless suffering. It. Is. Nowhere.-Fin-
Seriously though, that protest was ruining our Tai Chi class. I didn't haul ass to class in leggings as pants just to have my class get distracted and talk nonsense about how the 60s tactics are coming back like little kombucha stoner Paul Reveres. They can gather as they please, but can't they do it on the weekend when not disturbing learning institutions?
I of course totally forgot to photograph all of Camila's awesome outfit as Dunkin Donuts sent everyone away to close. That statement alone proves my dedication to style and reporting.
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