You'd see him as he traveled from under one cone of light to the next, his frame cast in sharp shadows by the dirty yellow light from each evenly spaced lamp-post. The roads were empty, desolate at this time of the night with nothing but the whispering wind to offer him any company or the solace that the hunched figure so desperately denied himself.
Raven hair half covers eyes that alternate between staring at the path right in front of his feet and the stars shining in sky. Shadows defined a hidden face glistening with sweat calling into question the length of the man's journey. A journey that only the quiet night would tell tales of, for at this hour there are no other witnesses in a sleepy town that doesn't seem to see what the man's dark eyes make out from behind a glazed stare.
It is this solitary figure that walks the streets of a sleeping town, stopping occasionally to hug his backpack, symbiotic, and from within its enabling interiors withdraws a tiny black book and pen into which he describes secretive thoughts under the dirty yellow glow of yet another lamp-post.