Alien sunlight- or shouldn't sunlight feel the same regardless of his point of reference?
This chain of signs, this path that had led him inevitably to this grimy noisy, stinking, beautiful city, this alien sunlight- had to be, must be, simply couldn't be anything other than necessary.
Inevitability. A reason to exist in an uninterested world. He picked up his lonely, battered suitcase and stepped out onto the sidewalk.
He struggled to maintain his focus, his single empty perspective, but his eyes slipped from one face to the next, resting uneasily on the shimmering reflections of high rise windows, the horizon like a beggar's mouth of broken grey teeth. The voices, buzzing high and low, roaring and chirping.
A ragged moth, outsized, dusty, fluttering almost dipping to the crowd and drifting up again, thhe noticed how light made patterns through one broken wing.
Doubt for moment, and this will fall away and in its place... nothing. The face of an indifferent man in an indifferent life.
He tugged at his wrinkled shirt, fumbled through his pockets for the packet of information from the teaching program, the salt lick taste of his unbrushed teeth competing with the sticky sweat dripping down the middle of his back.