"A trade off. Less humans inclined to wander than they would on a nice summer's evening. But more time for us."

A figurative 'us', clearly, given the mediocrity of the local sun and all, but maybe also us as in them, as in more hours in which Daniel is not groggily lured away from him. Looking down at his page, there is a moment of considering what he's done to it, and a familiar lurch—dimensionless, rambling markings, little hints of skill and no imagination, a waste of material, too much effort for too much simplicity, the opposite of sprezzatura, and none of this brings about dramatic artistic ennui so much as it reaffirms what he knows.

Still. He will continue. Later, perhaps, sketchpad and charcoal set aside, and reaches for the little packet of wipes he'd brought out to clean his fingers.

"Tell me about them."