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I know I've written about it three times already, but these are images I just can't get out of my head:

A line of machine-like men dressed in kevlar padding remove a group of peaceful people from the streets by way of pepper spray and baton jabs so that the upper-class diners at the hotel restraunt can have a better view with their meal. Singing songs in the middle of a crowd of peaceful demonstrators when suddenly there's a ruckus near the barricade, people start pusshing back in a panic, and one, two, three, too many to count faces come running past me, dripping from head to toe in pepper spray. We're still panicing, nobody knows where to go, what to do when cop cars come crashing through the crowd, and the riot police switch from pepper spray to rubber bullets. Pow, pow, pow, the whole world is going crazy, pow, I put my shirt over my face to protect myself from the tear gas that's now wafting through the air. I want to catch my breath, but there's nothing to breathe. I want to storm the cop cars like the anarchist black-bloc kids did, but I know better than to act on those impulses. All I can do is stand in the middle of that intersection, insurection, rush hour, one hand stretched up to form a peace sign while the other one holds my shirt that I soaked in vinegar to filter out tear gas, and try to absorb everything that's happening as much as possible. I look to my left, and I don't know for how long now, but there's a tv camera right in front of my face, too close to see that I'm making a peace sign. All those people see is the black shirt over my face, and the angry, confused look in my eyes. I worry.