with beady red eyes, pus in their teeth, trickles of spittle from their lips, like rabid wombats in the trees along the street or the rocky hills of the park, everything tinted in low light, perpetual dusk, they love it here in the gloaming with just enough sight to make out their deformed shapes in the windows of skyscrapers, they stink of static and whiskey and old cigarette ashes and fights with wives and children, stink of dog shit and awkward conversations and missing friends and granite, all the things I stuff into a dumpster in my head until I have to rest and oh they love that dreamscape, they own the night.