['Going to be another slow night...it seems...'
He taps the drained cigarette out onto the curve with his thumb. Leaning against a streetlamp, the wave of populace still flows by, and although their expressions are blank this evening, they shouldn't be compared to being purposeless. He assumed he looked like they did, like following the usual flow of always.
As they were.
As they seemed to be.
And as they all weren't.
For example, he bet he looked the exact same as he did yesterday, and the day before, and weeks ago, but perhaps not years. Still looking as if he was prepared to shank anyone who passed, and as if the air was pressuring too much over him. It didn't change with his moods, or when it did, it was sparce and subtle and quickly gone again.
And he hoped that those patterns stayed not only with happiness or fury, but also when he was dissapointed. Upset.
As he knew he would be.
And as he was.]