Walking to the shop for Rizla

Walking streets in noir tinged skies,
the flaps of my dearstalker blowing in the wind
Streets so cold and quiet
Silent
When silence is the voice of a discontent soul
manifesting itself in profanity and petual violence,
beermats and brimming ashtrays,
the lonely places where no words are forthcoming.
I think I hear music in the sound of running water
but I am mistaken, there is just silence
and the sound of my own footsteps carrying me home