There was no requirement to march, they reminded us.
Who can bend the will of the heavens, after all, to demand the fate of a man fall this way or that?
I hated that heady talk that those talking heads got up to on the TV. In lieu of golden puppet strings from the clouds, they greased the roads and lined them with hooks.
If you didn't run, they got you first. If you didn't jump, they'd shackle your feet. If you didn't march, you lost. What you lost was different for everyone, but you lost all the same.
The lampposts weren't the first to flicker, but they were the first we noticed. First the ones over the hill, then slowly the ones in front of you, then above you, like two black shoulders taking you in.
Some spoke of inner light, like hidden candles at night to get some reading done, writing if you still knew anyone to address to.
I could never find a wick.