I walk through these wretched streets again, a tragedy in every turn, and a mystery in every step. I let my long fingers run through my hair, a windswept mess.
I hear the voices again, they never stop. I'd say I'm used to them but ... I'm not. I can't be. Always thinking, always calculating, always...
I sigh and fix my coat; as clean as I can get it, but worn as time wills.
I have lost too much now. I, myself, might just get lost, but does that really frighten me or enlighten me?
I turn a corner, the murder flees.
How tragic to give such intellegent creatures such a horrible name.
I continue on through the narrow streets.
Maybe I want to be lost.
