I stop in my tracks,
Listening
A hollow clinking in the darkness.
In an alleyway, somewhat familiar,
Vacant and forgotten in the twilight hours
Except for the lingering cigarette smoke
And the scent of frigid, dehumanizing hate
And a clink
Low and somehow beneath the dense, dank dark
A sound disillusioning and honed to a fine point, like that of a blade meant to harvest death
A clink
And another clink
There is a man sitting near the end of the alley
At the back of the throat of Hell itself
He has his head down
But through the thick black smudge of night
I can still see the base of a brown glass bottle tap the bottom of an upper row of teeth
He stops, and looks up at me with eyes that resemble mine a little too much for my comfort
He brings the bottle down, and lowers his head, gazing at it as if for the first time
Suddenly he snaps his eyes up to mine, instantly staring into the deep void of apathy that looks back.
He smiles a knowing smile, and slams the bottle against his teeth.
It does much more than *clink.