The 96 bus stop, the overhead bridge, the basketball court, the bus interchange. 

Every one are just places. So general, that they are pluralised. 

But I can't help but watch the ghosts flit across the lenses time and time again. I shut the lenses. Everything else melts into the shadows except for the illuminating silhouette of my past with youthful joy so unrestrained that one may label it INNOCENCE with dashes of condescension. 

A mere reconstruction as it is. However numb the pain is, the wound still glimmers with guilt.