Beautiful night, isn't it?
Send me “Beautiful night, isn’t it?” to meet my muse in a graveyard.
There was undeniable morbid beauty in a graveyard; poetic even. The moon hung overhead like a dull light bulb and countless stars twinkled, each trying to outshine the other. The moon seemed to light up the tombstones and nearly breathed life into the statue in the center of the large graveyard. It was an angel in mourning, draped over the tomb of a pair of twins.
Vincent was staring up at the statue, sucking on his cigarette as he tried his best to compose some bits of poetry in his head. It had been far too long since the private eye had written and he had a few books that he didn’t see himself touching for a while even if he had been inadvertently “gifted” immortality. At the sound of a voice, he glanced over his shoulder, his eyes glowing softly much like the moon overhead.
“Never seen a prettier one,” he said, then turned around to face the stranger, “Do you make a habit out of approaching strangers all by their lonesome at night?”