guilt

with a feeling of guilt from the scene at the crime bakery we fled , mysterious inscriptions the patisserie's dim lights folding out onto the labyrinth streets, the chase of the iridescent old car and the incidents at the bakery, propelled us towards a newfound realization urging us to redirect our steps. As we tousled the intertwining streets almost in our arms, I glanced at an old discarded subway newsletter, it's extinct headlines and notes containing the tragedy of the one who baked her, news about the famed local baker. The unearthment of this underground murder, conduit to the very heart of a societal and historical imbalance. We needed acknowledgement from each other that we bore truth and headed toward an odd fork in the road, the city edge school. We were Grasped by the practice that this journey to the school's buildings could be discouraging the unravelling mysterious happenings from being left in the earthy roads. Leo and I started to wards the old rustic red walls inquisition and the impression taunted a furthering of investment and investigation, intoxicated our beacon-purpose guiding us through the tumultuous currents of the city toward a destination halting at a climbable wall.

Consciousness is a fickle servant, don't be drawn in by lifestyle or accessories.

"The light has gone from our lives" said the other of the group affected by the "more historical students." Another comradery spoke in unison, then, of their experiences with antiques, I as per my morals drowned out their delusions, incantations and anecdotes that were being held close to them only as they were the façade makers. My partner and I part ways with the group down the familiar halls commenting on what media drunk allusions to democracy we made, intoxicated in "people" I looked deep in their eyes, their freckles and washed skin not showing in the dim light un-refracted, as the curve of the ruby gemstone brick walls prevail onwards and onwards, An awkward start to a day, again of deception, "learn" contribute, rebuttal debate confuse and tame, but nothing tames in the world of the fog that confuses, causes debate, Dis hearts. The students, the teachers collide ever-less rash but less at ease or in peace. The psyche of the mind lurches then for human contact and—

"Hey". The voice, "you were talking out loud". It was Leo, accomplice to the Sollom archaeological halls we tread hard, "we are picking up a lot of people here, it's kind of soothing I guess, I'll stop my ramblings". I push past the meeting I just had to the back of my mind and carried on, "I feel we need to get you out of the corridor with the old-timey pictures and the half familiar faces" he said with a smile dredging towards the navy double glazed door, artistic, obviously from the posher area of the site we came from, swirls and their flourishing crescendo conclusions and rusty inclusions from the wear and tear of the fascinated or busy, a tear in the shape of a read book's unpublished words spewing across the horizon of the plains, although it looked two dimensional the door warped as though it had cold feet on wanting to crack and spew their fragments of wood that hasn't but smelled the light fragrance of day for almost a century, I give it.

We wander over to the knolls and field sphered by one literature colonnade's plié swirling throughout this place, that wearies us so much, as we Ventured and the patter and snaps of conversation in the air sombre cold and installs a knifing on those innocent ones of younger years who wear nothing but poor fashion running through the culture smog. The numbed and numbing dissolved breeze. The whisper continued as we came to the place of mediocre food, we were not especially hungry but came round to the Idea that this place could hold knowledge we want to obtain as well as seeing what the cuisine could tell us about the people here, it was a short squat building, two floors. Moss crept up the sandpaper brick walls, unpainted, uncared for, and the glass of the upper level reflected beams of sun on an ancient looking goal of one nonapparent game in the ruin that is the north side, or the longest. This side also faced with the task of upheaving from a sunken head gate that's green paint stripped and flailed in the breeze. there were tall grassy "cluster tufts," Leo pointed out that were almost unfixed to the ground as if a marble floor lay beneath, disturbing and preventing scribbling roots to lock anything green and biological to the floor. An industrial chalked coal roof lay onto the rugged glass in a prism of modern architecture, the students must be so proud of it that they overlook the food being swerved from held by a person to another person in a dual snaky bend; as per the number of cold eye staff.

This time the menu was exclusive offers, and expensive fruit bread, a break from the rest of the food, though sweet, not as poor as the damp breads of the past. I snaked against the line that's turmoil and turbulence mimicked such a serpent as the queue for sustainment, no previous or ghastly current fashions could dispel the self-absorption. No pedestalled archaeology stood here like the rest of the school.

I felt the cramp in my neck and the eyes on my cold spine as I hurried shaking from the winter cold trying to find a pint-sized link to a terracotta distant time. ...Perhaps a student could tell us why this murder happened with such large families in the Schloßland city

we hurried in a fantastic way as to not be removed from the school due to our age. atop the green curves there lay a brown cuboid spire that stretched an open hand with glossy windows to the sky, adorned with a bronze, oxidizing statue. Two wings flourished from this: both laden with heavy foundations sneaking into view, racks for bikes rudimentaly placed there and most importantly: students of age older than ours, we crept into the double doors and the sheer size of the bookshelves blew us away. Century old ladders, books from over half a millennium and the people were sadly older than the residents of the school as if it was a clique, needing two decades sufficing it's need for trust of these books, but amidst the undeserving rowdy duos and trios, there someone lay with tattered book without a designation to the library. It seemed a teacher from the school had swiftly left the child alone. She bore a close-to-the-temple long bob, jet black and over conditioned, she turned, the hair moved against the air, and she expressed a hope to read such an old book that the boy was possesing. He seemed not timid but contemplating and having difficulty focusing on the novel he fondled; shortly he stared at the maroon ceiling and the borders that skirted the shelves and numerous divisional murky windows. Leo without thought went up to the boy, He seemed troubled by presence of someone in our range of years but still spoke in perfect English guessing our nationality somewhat close: "Deusch? English?" he grazed again the rows of parchment and thin ink "I did study Latin...I don't want to thrust the book at you two, but if you were looking at it like that art teacher, I suppose you do want to read it." Before I could reason that we weren't, Leo sharply inquired. "Is there a date on it?" The boy fleetingly grinned and showed a prowess for research, grabbed his odd folder that lay on the floor and skimmed drawings of obelisks, trims of Italian newspapers, the bland page of his research, "I looked up the German translator and when she did her job for this book and pitched to my art folder that it was drawn from the presses from 18 72"we shared a look then to companions, that this 14-15 year old could quite help in our domain here.