No sound in my life is lonelier than the 3am passing of the street sweeper’s buggy. The reverberating hum washes through the silent streets, filling them with emptiness. The tip of my cigarette flares as I drag on it, propped against the wall on my balcony. I exhale a stream of toxins into the night, flick ash over the side. My surroundings reflect my reality. Empty noise, curling poison, and the ashes drift unnoticed to the street below.