The harsh lights of streetlamps overhead don't hurt his skin, but make his eyes buzz through to the back of their sockets, downtown becoming a surrealism painting as he hurries his way past.
His hunched shoulders try to create a barrier between the world, marching just as hollowly and as dutifully as a soldier doing its rounds - rounds,
a trip to the store in which he silently wishes blessings upon night-owl gas stations and shops on the corner.
Passerby hurry and slink past, a mixture of sleaze and mildly scared citizens getting back to their places for bedtime or assembling in alleyways for something a
cozy and legal. These ‘somethings’ vary widely, but none are particularly pleasant; they're the sort that people like Lamont deal with, and probably the doctor, at some point.
These things are interesting against his will, like hearing about murder on tv does or seeing those articles labelled
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