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Riot backpedals its dragon wings and lands next to the gray stone talons of loneliness; the scents of snow, fried eggs and sweat wriggle among them in a desperate thrash of neon worms. Coffee skitters with gecko toes up the table leg and under a book. The fog, of course, creeps in on kittenfeet.

Amidst all of them, Johann toils onwards; he’s deep in the metaphysical guts of the siren ape and he’s not going to look up any time soon. One by one his poor forgotten bits of city resign themselves to another night of scrounging. Only the stone remains.