Something is shuffling down the boardwalk.
Acrid smells like burning grease.
Earlier, a pair of men wearing powdered wigs finished their cigarillos and parted ways.
I'm standing in the spot they had occupied. One pair of feet head north, towards the business district. The other pair trail across the street and into a laundromat.
If any of this is true, perhaps the mandated medications doled out to me are thinning. Still, I may well be dreaming this, or else hallucinating. Backwards City looks green at this time of night.