The wounded man leans against the red brick wall, his eyes wandering up the yellow beam of the streetlamp. The city has no sky; no stars or moon shine over it this night. Here, a little light to comfort him as he presses his hand against his spilling life. He can’t quite staunch the flow.
Gazing into the light, his mind wanders, recalling the purple prose of a cheap novel: “The sleep of the just, as they call it, is denied me, for a time. Until all things are completed, until there is justice, I cannot rest.”
He marches on.
Tale Told 