Forced below the horizon, the last of the sun's rays disappear taking the ambience of the street with it. People hop quickly into the awaiting arms of black sedans, proudly displaying Uber logos on the dashboard; speeding away with quiet hums. Gone. Gone as though the empty blackness of night had sucked the oxygen from the lungs of the street, enveloping the street as it asphyxiates. As though in answer to the street's silent calls for help, streetlamps illuminate, splashing patches of artificial yellow light eerily over the street. Only now does he rise, with creaking limbs and stiff muscles, to shuffle down the street in a peculiar lurching gait.
The dark, cracked bitumen of the street bites relentlessly at his bare feet as he lurches onwards. He no longer notices the pain; his feet had grown numb with calluses long ago.
Strangers go. Strangers go.
Shuffling along the street, he stops at a window. Pressing his face to the pane so that his nose presses flat against glass, he looks inside. Four people are seated, talking inaudibly and laughing as they feast upon a roast chicken. He pulls away from the window slowly, leaving an imprint of oily sweat upon the pane. He doesn't bother wiping it away. Why should he?
He lurches along the street once again. Onwards, always onwards.
