a matter of taste
It was like the whole world had declared a holiday, but not let him on it. The quiet was palpable. His overactive imagination got the best of him. Invisible movement just outside his peripheral vision. Sounds he couldn’t identify teasing at him from dark corners beyond the reach of the streetlight glow. Creatures and monsters were imagined. He could smell that autumn decay in the air. Why did he think such horrible things? Why would a wearwolf live in Palo Alto anyway, that was a stupid idea. Hipster coders and the real housewives of Silicon Valley weren’t the tastiest choices out there. He imagined particularly the housewives leaving a bitter taste. The wearwolf would complain to his buddies about the horrible meal he’d had in Palo Alto and how he’d never go back.