Clean, he walked back out into the city, past the Pontiac and away, whistling softly to himself as he went... All Along the Watchtower…
Thin gossamer threads of vapour, like finely crafted webs of spiders silk, licked at the worn down heels of his Neubuck boots, something like ice cracking on the sidewalk in his wake.
A fallen angel of no particular age, like so many other fallen souls in the twilight city; dressed in faded Levi’s and an off-white shirt; very much alive to the many possibilities of the long night.
Just another one of the crowd.