This is the market square where the students and soldiers met yesterday, this space bordered on all sides by towering concrete broken by windows and balconies, holes and scars left low on the walls by gunfire. Tomorrow, it will be covered with stalls and tables and carts, all laden and filled with good things bright and beautiful, promising to fill the lives of browsers and touchers and buyers. Today we clean and primp in preparation for the pretense that all is well, setting pots of flowers upright in doorways, sweeping the chipped concrete into hungry shovels, casting dark shadows in the morning sun while scrubbing on our knees at the stubborn blood that surrounds the silhouettes of those who fell here.