Close to 10pm. Again. The odd ritual of evenings circling around certain waypoints. Or just a common distance through the hours after which a certain wear-off becomes visible in oneselves mental and emotional dress prepared so well for the day. On the move, passing unfamiliar neighbourhoods, traversing random streets and ultimately crossing the river in all its quiet darkness. A distant pale skyline, few buildings, each emitting age and past. (Too black a sky to still see the bats that have passing overhead for hours now. Rigid consciousness, liquid dreams.)