Dusk’s glow caresses your steps homewards, the streets, a tapestry of fading lanterns; passersby and paths you meander, like a painting, in a gentle, passing sight.

Your gaze wanders, a voyeur of the ordinary, until a striking visage draws you in—an adolescent with locks the hue of crimson roses, seated forlornly upon the sidewalk, his home a far-off memory.

Azure pools collide with your scrutinizing ones, his countenance sinks into a chasm of contempt, he snarls, “What are ya lookin’ at?”