The autumn sun glints off oversized sunglasses and the tiered chiffon of a boho-chic skirt as a woman rushes past a newsstand mourning the loss of August Wilson. I adjust my lens, capturing the sharp silhouette of skinny jeans tucked into Ugg boots while "Gold Digger" thumps from a passing car’s speakers.
I need to swap out my film roll, so I’ll be brb, but I can’t stop staring at the glossy display for that new Xbox 360 sleekly promised in the window. The white curves of the console look like the future, a clean contrast to the gritty, denim-heavy reality of this Monday afternoon.
Memories from that day
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The Headlines
August Wilson, Theater's Poet of Black America, Is Dead at 60