The Heritage
John admired the streets in front of his house. They were beautiful, more beautiful than the ones, he had lived on. Back in the days, when he had been »gone missing«, his main places to stay were the streets – or old buildings near older streets. He loved the cobblestones, their unsteadiness, their glimmer during the twilights. Old lamps threw their orange lights, more or less yellow than a nicotine stained wall, on those stones, echoes of light and sound…