You leave the building in slight stomach discomfort but anticipation.
No list or moral talisman folded into your pocket. The door clicks shut behind you. Immediately, the street begins offering opinions.
A laminated sign taped to a lamppost advertises Hot Food. Cold Drinks. Vape Repairs. Someone has written GOD IS DEAD underneath in biro, misspelt, corrected, misspelt again. You briefly consider this an act of post-ironic public art or a pen test.
As you drag the broken fence which rests lazily in performance of a secure entrance to the garden, you can already smell the faint aroma of leaf mulch and petrichor. You hear sounds, from every direction. Songbirds, seagulls, mechanical buzzing and grinding, distant laughter.
THE MYSTERY MAN:
What a beautiful, cacophonous symphony.
Perhaps it is time for some much needed quiet contemplation.