“No profession,” said the police car, as if talking to itself. The light held him fixed, like a museum specimen, needle thrust through chest.
“You might say that, “ said Mr. Mead. He hadn't written in years. Magazines and books didn't sell any more. Everything went on in the tomblike houses at night now, he thought, continuing his fancy.
The tombs, ill-lit by television light, where the people sat like the dead, the gray or multicolored lights touching their faces, but never really touching them.
“No profession,” said the phonograph voice, hissing. “What are you doing out?”
Mr. Mead looked up at the police car, its mechanical voice echoing in the empty street. The light from the car's headlights intensified, making him feel even more trapped and exposed.
"I'm just taking a walk," Mr. Mead replied cautiously. "Enjoying the night air."
The police car seemed to pause for a moment, as if processing his response. Its red and blue lights blinked ominously, casting an eerie glow on the surrounding buildings.
"But what is your purpose?" the car asked, its tone devoid of any human warmth or understanding.
Mr. Mead hesitated, unsure of how to explain himself. "I suppose I'm just trying to find some inspiration. Trying to remind myself of the world beyond these tomblike houses," he answered truthfully.
He glanced around at the quiet streets, the closed curtains and darkened windows. It used to be different, he thought. People used to fill the neighborhood with their presence, their laughter, their activities. But now, it was as if life had been sucked out from the very streets he called home.
The police car seemed to mull over his words for a moment, the silence only broken by the distant sound of sirens.
"Inspiration," it repeated, the voice almost mocking. "What use is inspiration in a world that has lost its imagination?"
Mr. Mead felt a pang of sorrow deep within. It was true, he thought. The world had become a place of conformity, where creativity was suppressed and individuality was frowned upon. Everyone lived their lives through screens and technology, numb to the beauty and essence of the physical world.
"I guess I just hope to remind others that there is more to life than what they see on their screens," Mr. Mead replied softly, his voice filled with a mixture of nostalgia and longing.
The police car remained silent for a moment, its lights dimming slightly. It almost seemed as if it was contemplating his words.
"Be careful," it finally spoke, the mechanical voice now tinged with a trace of empathy. "The world outside these tombs can be unforgiving to those who dare to be different."
With those words, the police car slowly backed away, its red and blue lights eventually fading into the distance.
Mr. Mead stood there for a moment, the weight of the encounter sinking in. He knew he couldn't change the world on his own, but perhaps, by sharing his words and stories, he could ignite a spark of imagination in someone else. And maybe, just maybe, that spark could be the first step towards breaking free from the suffocating grip of the tomblike houses and reclaiming the lost art of truly living.