He looks to the left, a quick pause to check the commotion. 
There’s shouting crying out on the street. Stomping boots, 
signs in hand. It’s another day, another protest, nothing to 
worry over. She questions him, “What’s happening?” It 
could be anything or nothing at all. They want attention 
and this is the day they chose to be seen. 

“You should go, I know I would if I could.” She embraces 
the urge to signal solidarity. She recognizes the lonely pillar 
of strength squawking into the void. She’s eager and enlivened 
to join. “They need us,” she tells him. The artists, the movers, 
the shakers. But they march where no one is watching. With 
no real audience, nothing will change if no one is listening.