In the Arms of Morpheus
The clouds thundered in the distant skies, the morning hues of burgundy and maroon gently kissed the exposed blue. The sun merely signaled the time of 9am. Stepping into the fresh morning sun from the narrowed brick corridor, J. Edward Liveon, Private Eye, sniffled at the sight of the bustling crowds of Market square. As a trolley squelched past, spewing its’ enraged ashen debris, a toll booth could be heard in the distance, two dings, a pause, two more dings. The sounds of voices were amplified, ricocheting off the dark stoned buildings, soft water droplets propelling the rocky exteriors. The square was wide, with many off-shooting streets of varying sizes. The larger ones bustled with motor carriages and trollies. Moderately sized pathways, which dipped and curved throughout the region, were jam-packed with bustling foot traffic, Thousands of mysterious faces traveling to mysterious places. The smaller paths were harder to spot, shady characters decorated the mouths to the dangerous alleys. Edward would fall within the shared classification of a shady character, the slight scar on his face often allotted a swift judgment by strangers.