Fog mingles with the light emanating from the street lamps, drawing out a continuous, honey-coloured stream of photons from their crowned heads looming up above in the murky greyness, looking down onto the wet cobblestones so slippery you might break your neck although there isn’t even much rain falling, only intrusive dampness creeping into the gaps between the layers of your clothes.

Down the street a tall figure is walking unsteadily on the wet cobblestones, holding up a lanky pole with a half-open sphere at the top, swaying gently in the breeze, gathering up the fog saturated with the pale lamplight, storing it for further use. As the figure continues down the street, the air grows tangibly dimmer, the light harvested, its particles removed gently.

The figure softly hums a tune that smells faintly of the darkness following, a crisp, musky odour hailing back to unlit caves penetrated by the scent of burnt-down fires and sooty bones littering the ashes, the thick smell of charcoal running down rough walls in the shape of a never-ending hunt lost somewhere in the folds and creases, the recesses of time and a memory gone for good without a chance of recovery, down, deep down the well of a brooding past so restless you have to watch your hollow tread echoing with dust.

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