On any given day, they spill out onto the streets, driven by fury.
They march. They kneel. They sing.
They cry. They pray. They light candles.
They chant and shout, urgent voices, muffled behind masks.
They block freeways and bridges and fill public squares. They press their bodies into hot asphalt, silently breathing for eight minutes and 46 seconds.
They do all this beneath the watchful gaze of uniformed police officers standing sentry.