You know, I never sat on a curb before in my life.

I love summer nights now. It actually took me a long time to enjoy summer, to be honest. I spent fourteen years of my life running from a fat volcano monster, so you can imagine where I'm coming from. It took a long time, but eventually, I went from, 'Why is there a season devoted to 24/7 Iblis temperatures?' to 'Holy Chaos, this actually feels good.'

If you spent the first fourteen years of your life dealing with a large volcano monster as I did, you might not know what a summer night is. Allow me to fill you in.

The sky is actually dark blue instead of permanently ash gray. There are stars; have I mentioned how pretty stars look? I didn't get enough of pretty until after Iblis. The temperature's not oppressive. In fact, the temperature's so subtle that you almost don't notice it, except for the small amount of amazing it gives you to breathe in. There's a taste to it.

Everything's warm from earlier that day, but no one except for you is around to witness it. Even if you profess to dislike solitude, you'll be forced to reconsider.

Which brings me back to the curb. A curb is an amazing invention for carts and Extreme Gear alike, to keep them from running over people in day, but I really think curbs were invented for something else. People like me, who might be restless at night because there's a lot going on in their heads.

The city's loiterer waves to me from a quarter-mile away. He's probably got a lot in his head, too.

Our 'city loiterer' is a tall Mobian who does nothing but smokes in a black trenchcoat. I started out thinking he was some dastardly villain and tried my best to avoid him, but he shows up everywhere whether you try to avoid him or not. We've never talked; I don't think he does talk. We just communicate with simple nods—I've never tried breaching his mind, that's just rude.

I've seen other people like the Loiterer, but they talk. When they open their mouths, they say downright rude things. Which makes me think that maybe the less you talk, the kinder you are.

I guess that's why I pour my thoughts out here, on this journal page.

Speaking of writing, I wrote a letter to Blaze last week. She never actually died, and it's been messing with my head for a long time after. It went something like this:

"Blaze—How's life downtown? I'm sorry I haven't written for a long time, I've been really busy working with the historians. I think I've found a job I like, though the laundromat also holds a strange amount of attraction. I guess I just like helping people."

I wrote more after that, but when I was about to mail it I realized that 1.) The address I was about to mail it to didn't exist, and 2.) Blaze technically didn't exist either.

I sigh; put my head in my hands. Powers like you wouldn't believe, and I let my best friend get taken by a lava slug.

All of a sudden, I feel a tap on my back.

The city loiterer stands behind me. I can't really see his mouth, but there's a smile in his eyes that reminds me an awful lot of Blaze. I want to move away, get back home or something before I start crying, but that means leaving this guy...

So I stay, stop trying to hold back tears, and hope no one else sees them. They roll directly into the gutter, following the curb. That guy who came up with curbs definitely had his head on straight.