I heard sounds from Belfast this morning

The camera shifted in his hands slightly as he hurried down the street. The sounds were overwhelming, he reached to cover his left ear, sliding his cold, clammy, chapped hand out of his rain jacket. The rain was pins and needles each landing on the inside of his skin. He raced passed the murals without enough time to recall the memories they were painted to remember. Glancing around. Bated breathe. Every exhale smoking as a dragon's, movement slows. Greys fill in everywhere out of reach of grafitti and murals. Coming to a stop, the end of the Shankill road focuses into view and the music begins. A harmony only heard by the hopeful.