He was knee-deep into the morning, following the spill of sunrise from one empty shed to the next busted stoplight. The night has buried itself on his skin, deep into the bones of his cheeks, throbbing around his eyes, slipping into the cave of his throat, settling in the hollow den of his chest where myths and legends rest with the rest of the city’s dust and grit.
He gathered the evenings and hid them there, plucking out stories that lapped back and forth from the streets to his lips. His voice broke over alleyways and street corners in surges of whispered secrets and gushes of revelations: adventures of infidels and hushed preys, giggling schoolgirls and the thumps of fists. He told them again and again until the waves of daylight have washed it clean. The stories floated from his veins, drowned in the high noon, rippled in the sunset, and, in the moonrise, murmured true.