The city is tired. You can feel it in every gust of wind, every gurgling storm drain, every pothole that has morphed into its own ecosystem.
The city is tired, like a man unsure how he got home after work or how long he slept after passing out on his bed with his clothes barely opened.
The city is tired, and you can see how its tiredness seeps into everyone around you even as they laugh and profess that everything is great and oh did you hear about Martha getting a new dog?
You push your hat down against the wind, the rain oily and hateful as it seeks to infect you with the city's malaise.
You duck into a weathered entry, the stale air of the arcade greeting you as you exchange knowing nods with the proprietor.
"Hello, Flakes", you say, already feeling a little better.
"Hello__"