The crimson crescent descends upon an obscure village.
The pages are turned and situations are engaged, locked into a web, an alive, glowing web of being.
The moon hangs like a pale yellow cyst in a starless night.
The street is deserted now and a chill northern wind tosses the newspapers around like pathetic ghosts.
They thrash limply along the narrow alley.
A figure crouched in the doorway its face tinged with an orange glow from a cigarette.
Glowing deeply glowing.
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