664 Carroll Street has all its lights on, and I can see somebody in the window tidying up the front room, getting ready to go to bed, probably.
668, two doors down, has a brightly lit number in gold leaf letters on the glass above the door, like all the brownstones on this street.
666, though, is mostly dark, and has no indicating numbers, no activity in the windows, nothing to draw attention to itself.
The dog waits patiently for a bit while I watch it, and then, bored, sits down, completely oblivious to numerological systems of ancient middle-eastern religions and their eschatology.
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