There's beauty in Badside, if you know where to look for it.

And he does. Not even the sad, hopeful kind of beauty, like green shoots peeking their way out from underneath broken concrete, or a particularly skillful bit of graffiti, or the way the sunrise filters prettily through the fog. It's just that the nicer parts of Badside are that way because of the slow, encroaching gentrification, and looking at them does nothing for the ache in his chest where he thinks his heart is supposed to be. It's just hot anger there now, sometimes, but more often the steady dull beating of impotent frustration. Banging his hands against the bars.

He avoids the pubs he normally wastes time in because he doesn't have any money, and too many people here recognise him as their neighbour for him to be comfortable just sitting and people watching. He doesn't have it in him right now to have polite chats about how so-and-so is doing, how are the kids, shitty weather we're having lately. He would like to, is the thing.

Instead he drifts down the street, not looking at anything, not seeing anything. He should probably pay attention to where he is going.