The guardian lions are slick and wet in the grey twilight. An old woman passes them with a slow, uneven gait, her mouth moving but her voice unintelligible. Across the street a young man speaks angrily to nobody in particular. Somewhere in the distance a man screams furiously, warning everyone within earshot that they are going to hell. As dawn lightens the grey clouds, shops begin to open one by one.
the paranoid streets echo