The wooden privacy fence gave the impression of a bowl that opened up onto clear, empty sky. The casual, muted sounds of occasional birds, the distant deep whoosh of the freeway. the dull thump and whack of work crews, roofers. He tried to picture the interior lives of these houses, these small brick-and-mortar capsules of life. There would be people inside, going on about the business of dreaming and living. But doing what, he couldn't imagine. It was blank. He was just over thirty years old.
-- Matt Bondurant, "Hole-Man" from Dallas Noir, Akashic Books City Noir series