The streets are teeming with life, with the souls and dreams of every person who has ever set foot or wheel or wing over them, yet nobody but myself is to be found.
They are all within their homes - their tiny little brick houses, tiny little wood houses, tiny little straw houses that are set aflame when the furies light upon the horizons, or as the house decides to take it upon itself to free the souls chained within.
The street lights are off, but the houses glow with computers and televisions and the technology that tends to rule the world as we know it. Windows open and shades unpulled, noise floats out and through the air, swirling with the falling leaves and the hot air that seems almost incongruous with the bitter chill of the night.
Screams and tears and cries come from the depths of each home in hour-long intervals, and yet they are only seconds apart. Lights pop on and off, in search of the burglars and thieves that always seem to be out to get them and only them. They are all so paranoid of something which seems so inevitable and, yet, the only thing of which they have need to be paranoid is themselves.
Then comes the sudden turn, a swiftly changing path, and the exit from loneliness and helplessness; this is the self-acknowledgement of nothing being right in the world while everything is. The cars whip past in a dizzying blur, producing blasts of freezing wind - tornadoes of fear and hate.
Lights pop up in every direction, poles stretching catlike toward the skies: always shining, yet never lighting. Buildings move closer and closer to one another, huddling up together against the wind and the sheer terror of what might just be humanity itself, if not the artificial emotions of absolutely nothing and everything at the same time.
And one of the buildings engulfs me whole, the Mecca of which I had previously been in search. Lights reach down from all around, encompassing and concealing. There is warmth, of course, but it all seems wrong; all seems false. Nothing seems right in the world. This Mecca is nothing like it should be, nothing like I had previously imagined - there is no sign of civilization, just the savage abscesses of an empty world.
I turn around and leave, re-entering the vacuum of the outside world. If not for the hollow void that I still hold inside, it would be Mecca. But Mecca cannot be found so easily.
The streets seem to accept me as one of their own, a being of asphalt and gravel, and I merge with the pavement. I am connected to everything, yet I am lost to the world; and so I walk through the dead, cold night in search of what now feels like nothing, but what is really everything. The emptiness and loneliness take hold. I feel nothing; I am nothing.
A being of nothingness cannot exist, so I wither away into wisps of smoke and fly to the ends of the earth.