The town drank it up; all the blind smiles were promises to God. The town was called something, and the people were nothing. This was a night composed of the death of dreaming, but the pictures wouldn't be forgotten: The spindly wires that hosted multi-colored street lanterns, and the way a beer looks in the moonlight, and the jovial faces of drunk men and women dodging questions to make love. Now and then a child would disappear into the night; many sincere aims died in the street, and the town was oblivious. And if the laughter hadn't been the loudest thing, many people would've heard the evening weeping.
But, the town drank it up.
This was a repository for the unjust, and the insincere. But, then, the beautiful became sincere, here. The town was called something, and it drank it up, every night. The town drank up the love and the irritation and the abandon and called it a wash; there wasn't a soul without mad, wild passion coursing through his mind and his blood. The people were nothing, but they became dreamers in this nameless town and then their dreams died at nighttime, and they became something. The how's and why's and when's of having your soul injected with substance was a mystery lost to the beautiful, wild people in the town.