The streets are awash with people. As soon as he steps outside, a torrent of bodies crash down on him. The evening rush teems with all forms and shades of life; business suits, working boots, uniforms, high heels, runners, flip flops, hats, runny noses, giggling, electronic alarms, smoke, dogs barking, babies crying, the beeps of reversing vehicals, all bubble up around him, swirling around corners, whirling around him, a mighty cachophony. But he hears nothing, sees nothing. He does not realise until much later that it is the jostling crowds that keep him bouyant and its flow that guides him down the currents of crowds, back towards his home.
Underfoot, tramping feet leave their indelible but imperceptible mark as they follow their regular course, eroding the cobbled streets bit by bit until pebbles and loose stone call the Repairmen to the scene.
In the City, crowds ebb and flow as regularly as the tide, filling the streets before the working day begins and emptying out again during the daylight hours, with scattered pools of people left on street benches or in parks, waiting for the next surge to carry them away again.
High tide draws in when darkness descends. The stench of sweat and dirt, the sweet scents of perfume and cologne, the aroma of frying miscellaneous meats that spit and sputter from street stalls, all swirl together and pour from the main boulevards down lanes and byroads, saturating the revellers who follow the swell of bodies home.
He ambles forward, numb to the people around him. Every step takes effort, as if he were walking under water. All noise becomes a murmur. He blinks back tears. Suddenly, the sharp shrill of a siren cuts through his reverie and he looks up. Across the road he spies a vacant bench and, turning slowly, he makes his way towards it.