There was a good crystal frost in the air it cut the nose and This particular evening he began his journey in a westerly direction, towards Passing of a lone figure, himself, in the early November evening. Lights might click on and faces appear and an entire street be startled by the Journey with barkings if he wore hard heels, and Strolling at night, because the dogs in intermittent squads would parallel his For long ago he had wisely changed to sneakers when Would pause, cock his head, listen, look, and march on, his feet making no Were whisperings and murmurs where a window in a tomb-like building was still Inner room walls where a curtain was still undrawn against the night, or there Sudden grey phantoms seemed to manifest upon Through a graveyard where only the faintest glimmers of firefly light appeared And on his way he would see theĬottages and homes with their dark windows, and it was not unequal to walking Miles and return only at midnight to his house. Was alone in this world of A.D., 2053 or as good as alone, and with a finalĭecision made, a path selected, he would stride off, sending patterns of frostyĪir before him like the smoke of a cigar. He would stand upon theĬorner of an intersection and peer down long moonlit avenues of pavement inįour directions, deciding which way to go, but it really made no difference he Was what Mr Leonard Mead most dearly loved to do. Grassy seams and make your way, hands in pockets, through the silences, that November, to put your feet upon that buckling concrete walk, to step over Into that silence that was the city at eight o'clock of a misty evening in
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