He hurried, tipping through the rush hour of market. Under garnments, a shocked body. Under head, a loud though to be heard. On the other side was father's shop. In the dusty cloth store he entered and startled others. Racing up the thin stairway he made it to the musky room were market was still music. He sat on the stool and pulled out ink and a feather, begining to write the words of his elderly friend which later set the hunt for him. This writing was moving, passionate, revolutionary.