No traffic, human or otherwise touched this side of the night; the cityscape settled quietly, in colourless yawns as a soft drizzle danced on the tips of lonely streetlamps. Pools of poignant orange gathered where the streetlamps stood, diffused and sullen; beads of lingering warmth running down the length of an emptier street.
He strolled along; an ambulatory gait devoid of direction. A wind stroked his jacket, danced in his hair, tugged at his sleeves, and went away into the folds of the city. A flickering green man turned blood red, uncaring of his presence; a single car left him behind in the dust. What the day presents, the night removes: no sense of purpose, no wistful colours.
The night; a thief, sneaks upon him. Carves his soul into little pieces. Dances like wild fire. A thousand shards of melancholy, and of it all: solitude he finds, most beguiling.
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