The Pedestrian — Vocabulary
Ray Bradbury
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During the day it was a thunderous surge of cars, the gas stations open, a great insect rustling and a ceaseless jockeying for position as the scarab-beetles, a faint incense puttering from their exhausts, skimmed homeward to the far directions.†

Crime was ebbing; there was no need now for the police, save for this one lone car wandering and wandering the empty streets.†

For long ago he had wisely changed to sneakers when strolling at night, because the dogs in intermittent squads would parallel his journey with barkings if he wore hard heels, and lights might click on and faces appear and an entire street be startled by the passing of a lone figure, himself, in the early November evening.

The light held him fixed, like a museum specimen, needle thrust through chest.†

Time for a dozen assorted murders?†

It smelled of harsh antiseptic; it smelled too clean and hard and metallic.†

He listened to the faint push of his soft shoes through autumn leaves with satisfaction, and whistled a cold quiet whistle between his teeth, occasionally picking up a leaf as he passed, examining its skeletal pattern in the infrequent lamplights as he went on, smelling its rusty smell.†