If I should suddenly start to sing, or stand on my head or anything

At first, there's barely a sound, barely a speck of color among the shadows of the deceptively old structure. Not anything remarkable about the place, except for its location, perhaps. The air is crisp, the ground is slippery, ice covered in snow covered in more ice. Layers upon layers of white fluff and a concussion just waiting to happen should you forget to watch your step.

He's always liked snow. Especially now, when his eyes are closed and his senses are focused outward; every little snowflake is like a peck on the cheek or the ear or the back of his neck. He remembers the first winter on Earth, he kept imagining the snowflakes were fairies - tiny little darlings dancing in the air only to become it if they ever touched you. Evaporating, melting... It's an end he wouldn't wish on anyone.

Slowly, softly, color seeps into the world, between the cracks. Yellow tones, orange and ochre battling against the dark in an eternal war.

It's beautiful. It gives him hope. The world didn't end tonight. It's just begun anew. Turned a new leaf, if you will.

He opens his eyes, the warmth reflecting in the red of his irises. Maybe today, he can turn a new leaf too. Maybe it isn't too late.

Maybe there's hope for him yet.

Ahh, the late October evening air is crisp and sizzling with the bustle and excitement permeating 6th Street. Just an hour or two ago, the streets lay quiet and calm, like before a storm. And what a storm it is. Tonight is the biggest night of the year for Lorne - the only night he can go out with a bang (so to speak), and glam it up without having to worry about mobs and pitch forks and torches and all kinds of peer pressure. He can be lean and green and having a fabulous time. For any other demon with a sense of dignity, Halloween is the be all and ban all of faux pas-es. It's a night where silly wannabes co-mingle. It is just not done.

But Lorne will do it and do it well for every year he can muster. He'll be in his hundreds, old and wrinkly and hunchbacked, and he'll still come here for the big event.

***

And when the darkness has fallen over the city, and the parade lights up the city streets with eerie lights and chilled merriment in equal doses, Lorne dances down the line like it's 1999, all feathered up, glammed up and having a ball.

You never know who you'll bump into, and the best part? You can pop into a coffee shop or a restaurant on the way, get to know someone better anytime you want to. If he should be so lucky tonight, it would be the icing on the cake and the cherry on top.

There comes a time in every demon's life, where hesheit must decide what to do with their life. For Lorne, that time keeps on comin' like a record stuck on repeat. First, in Pylea, when he decided to end his misery. Then, in LA, when he decided to open up a karaoke bar.

Then there was the time his bar got trashed one too many times, and he decided to move in at the Hyperion Hotel. Help the do-gooders do good.

He takes a long, slow drag on his cigarette, relishing the soft, deceptively tender burn down his throat and all the way down to the bottom of his lungs - wherever they're situated. And then, he mentally ticks off another finger, another blob on the MS Word bullet list, there was Wolfram & Hart.

He exhales, watching the sun rise between the blackened outlines of the never-ending skyscrapers of Manhattan. Then there was Wolf, Ram and Hart.

The smoke curls into wisps and curlicues in the air, blending with the bright, summery rays of the sun. This is the time of year that should be spent having a ball, lounging at the beach at every opportunity, or hanging out with friends, or seeing shows and concerts and meeting strangers in the night and not having a care in the world, to fall in love with life itself...

Life should be a great many things, this time of year. Empty isn't one of them.