He sees swirling shapes in the distance, a misty grey, crackling sharply at the edges of his consciousness. The gravel beneath his feet crunches, and grates agonisingly against the muffled fog he's used to hearing. Dull brickstone buildings line the street, imposing themselves upon the figures hurrying up and down. Like these people, the season fade and change but the buildings never fade, never change, they remain just there. He wishes that he could walk on forever, stumbling away from the bright lights and dark nights, into that somewhere called dystopia.
revealed Jeffrey Fritz when the clock struck 9:22:00 AM