Hero (herogear) wrote in parallel_fic,

Another Night in the City

This has to be, what, the tenth pretty face I've come across tonight. Not even that generic magazine pretty either. We're talking true beauty. But this conversation is dragging. Nothing against her; she's sweet and all that...but holy crap. No substance. No soul. It's almost a disappointment.

And for some unknown reason, this club starts playing Maaya Sakamoto. Am I dreaming? Nah, if it were a dream, this conversation wouldn't be so dull.

It's like...nothing. The peppy psuedo-jazz, the bright, happy faces, the great coffee and smell of hazelnut mixed over...cherry, is it? And then "Dive" starts playing. This is the perfect night, and yet a night like all the rest. It's electric - people are alize and kicking and smiling and talking, even at 1am.

So why does it all feel so empty?

I come across these fields of do-gooders, well-wishers, and honest people...only to recognize their traits, but take in no true granduer from it all. It's like an element is missing. Or an element of me.

More aromas pour in as the door opens. The crisp cold air pushes in roses from across the street, cigarette smoke...and all the happy voices dance down the avenue. This night IS perfect. Which makes it so strange, knowing it and feeling nothing.
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