THE CROWD SHIFTED. The wind, all around us, howled vengefully and plucked at our clothes, lifting up scarves and causing people to pull the thick lips of their beanies lower over their foreheads. The figures shuffling off the bus at Third and Main spared a bemused glance at us clustered behind the Union Gospel Mission men’s shelter before hurrying on their way.
Against the exterior of the shelter, a ghostly image flickered to life; a human face transformed into a sprawling landscape, each wrinkle and crease a canyon winnowed out by floods of sorrow or joy and then left barren by drought. A stirring score by
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