onepassingnight | volume 4

There's something eerie about walking through an empty New York, a place that's supposed to be the opposite of a cowboy ghost town. At least there aren't any tumbleweeds. But it always leaves Peter feeling hallowed out in all the wrong ways, lost with nothing left to find. He doesn't even bother looking into the windows of empty buildings; he's done this too many times to know that there's nothing there to see, that there won't be anyone else looking back.

The sound of his footsteps echo far too loudly and Peter sighs, trying to ignore the part of him that keeps getting its hopes up at the turn of every corner. There's not going to be anyone there waiting. Not at this street or the next, and yet Peter peers around each street, down every alley, still searching for the remnants of people that might have passed by. Maybe if he listens hard enough he'll hear something outside of the thoughts inside his own head.

He's already done all his shouting, he always tries it, seeing if the sound of his voice might bring any wanderers out from hiding. But he always stops just before going hoarse, there's no point. Turning at another street corner, Peter will never enjoy feeling as if he's the last person left on earth.

[ ooc; feel free to hit up this post however you'd like to -- be it prose or actionspam/brackets. i'll respond accordingly ]

Adam is walking for some time before he even realizes it, glancing at his watch as though--inanely--he might have somewhere to be. His steps aren't hurried, nor are they leisurely; only taking enough care to put one foot in front of the other and nothing more sophisticated. Though these streets are bare, they tell a story, and where there is a tale to be told Adam would be there.

Though he's yet to find himself uncomfortable, pacing dark streets alone, he feels distinctly as though he does not belong. What's more disturbing is how truly undisturbed he is as he goes about his rounds, as if he were meant to do so. Then again, he's no stranger to foreign memories. Even his own often felt removed and far away as though someone had shared them with him a long time ago and he had merely picked up the residual.

And that's precisely what this space is: residual. Even for a dreamworld, its framework is weak. A dream within a dream perhaps, or just some odd bit of whimsy conjured by a man who spent no less than 80% of his waking life in the clouds.

He knows before he does that this is Peter's dream; he's seen enough of them by now. And perhaps that's why it's with a certain confidence that he owns the space, callous to its rightful owner.

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