He finds direction in the routine: roadside graffiti, business cards on napkins, and the rattle of a half empty can of spray paint in his ears. Godhood doesn’t matter much here-- not in the grand scheme of things, not when who and what he is no longer rests in the hands of the people.
He pulls his scarf up around his mouth, and casts a weary glance around the room, at the expanse of dusty old televisions and orphaned appliances.
“Place is a graveyard..” Words obscured by fabric, he pauses to examine his reflection in a foggy and cracked mirror. The glass is more a kaleidoscope than anything else with its discolored spots and distorted images. “Or, I guess fun house might be a better word.”
“You never really said--” His knuckles wrap on the glass, and his reflection receives no answer. “-- what you were looking for.”
@gaidios
