This is the hour of the soft night tiding. Sharpened whet-stone nightmares. There are men, dark and brutal, lurking in the streets. It's all a question of percentages. And that eats at you, a small, niggling bother of an itch that you know is gonna fester because you need to figure it out. Why the taste of blood? What the fuck with the dream you can never remember? And the almost remembering driving you crazy?
And you think of her - wet hair, laughing. Her arms and her breasts and her laugh. Things had been alright. That's exactly what you'd thought. This is alright. And it was. Until it wasn't. Until night fell from the sky in crumpled Pabst flares.
The night will wait until you are ready to receive it.
That's some bullshit. Don't believe it.