Down the cold, moist streets and back alleys of East London, he would hear the occasional voice or car swerve from the street to street--the wondrous mirage of evening lights filling the entire color spectrum. Walking through his favorite alley, he would stop and admire his handsome reflection in a closed bookshop window with what little light was left. One night he stopped and admired himself after a quite successful and fulfilling day--a day full of transgressions, happy handshakes, and crippled paychecks--and observed an unusual thing. It was not the young man he had once envisioned, but instead a haggard, middle-aged depressed human being with an unkept beard and disheveled attire. He stood there for the longest time, what felt like his entire life, and could only frown. It appeared that, for once, time had not stopped for him.