The night city is not the day city, though they share the same streets, the same alleys. Light becomes a commodity.
The men of the night city, free from the day of park-sleep and bench-sleep, daylight indignities of filth, of squalor, the sordid shame of open begging in the face of bottomless scorn.
They come into their own then. They move swiftly as cats in their confidence, sure in their knowledge of the night city, the mask of darkness granting each man discretion and subtle magic.
Dusk a prayer of waking, midnight a prayer of communion, dawn a benediction.
Hey, just a reminder of a great new prompt: 150 words based on Google Maps. What Pegman Saw. Check it out!