It seemed like ages since anything had happened. No demons, no angels, no ghosts: no nothing. In fact, it was rather odd how quiet things were, as if not a soul in the city had one tiny of ounce of humanity: as if no heavenly or purgatory power had any say in what all these poor, dumb creatures wandering the streets did.
There's a sort of peace in this supernatural wasteland, as if there's no choices being made, or battles being won (or lost). It's like every window in the city is asleep, and here on the rooftops, even though the sounds of the city clamber up the sides of the buildings, it's like there isn't a soul in the city. It's like a factory: every single movement, every single breath, a mere contrivance, an automaton's performance. And then there's that peace I mentioned, but that was the wrong word: it really isn't peace, any more than a town without people, or a performance without an audience is; it's not anything nearly as godly as "peace." What it is, is the look in a child's eyes when you tell them that there is no Santa Claus.
This place has no belief, except perhaps the vague idea that they were once robbed of it, or perhaps deceived into it, in the first place. They have misplaced religion and faith, fear and prayer, and put resentment up on their dismal, fireless mantelpieces. Sad, lonely pathetic resentment. It's cringing and small. There's nothing to move a soul: hate or love, some passion, none of that fire that makes a girls eyes burn for a boy. No, people go about their mundane lives, as if they were born, bred and bathed in monotony, and there's nothing to be done about it.
Every single last fuckin' one: look, there's a large man eating his hot dog, and looking nervous. Or is that a twitch? There, there's an old women talking to a stranger's baby: maybe she is lonely. And, there's the college kids making out: mother of God! Can't they do that somewhere else? Whatever that is.
Ah, but here's something…here's the strange man in the trench, trying not to look like he's been to Hell and back. He's an odd one, in fact you could say he is the only odd person on this whole god-forsaken rock, the only one who does anything about it. And because he is that way, I am going to tell a story about him.
There, he's lighting a smoke. Let's join him.
