Traces of the Zero-Point Carnivore

A grey fog, just down from the hills. A wolverine void. A zero-point carnivore.
They're like ghosts now, those buildings, and their vanishing precedes the night. Their fading is a premonition.
(and I hear the ghost of Emily Bronte's voice; forerunners of a sterner power, heralds of me? It only makes sense with the question mark. Different editions. Different time)
Time is different now.
17:00. The yellow numbers on the call centre display screens. The breaking of the headphones; removing the headset from the phone itself, breaking the day like a ritual.
Then past the lifts. Can't be bothered to wait with so many other people.
Down the cool sigh of the stairs. Glimpses of the church next down.
Out into the night, up the hill, walk by the homeless man with the dog, and the Regency Leisure Centre. Pink neon lights the only alive thing in the November night.
Ashen eyes, and grey movements. Everyone I pass by bears traces of that wolverine void.
If I saw my eyes in the mirror, I would bear traces of that zero-point carnivore too.
We all do when autumn heads into the November deeps.
...but I tend to avoid mirrors after nightfall.