Every night I walk in the very same streets. Familiar. Unchanging. The same empty streets. The same night breeze kissing through my silk nightgown. The same damp pavement I stepped on. Barefoot.
And yet each night was different. Scents lingering from the vandalized walls were roused faintly hovering over my nostrils as I take in air that I so badly needed. Faces that I haven't seen the night before were also there. Staring — ever so slightly on my lonesome shadow. I can't help but smile a little. Amused by how their eyes could speak of the things they dare not to say.
Ah yes. The night streets were unlike any other. Very different — too contradictory — to my own home. House.
What a laugh.
Yet like any other day, I stand up from the cold cement floor as I peek at the time from the broken glass of my old phone. Defeated, I drag my feet, pleading them to make haste towards the direction of my house. And like any other day, I end up in front of it. With not a single part of me wishing to go inside.