Ignorance

The wind blew through the rusting leaves on the trees and the charcoal clouds blew along in tow. The streets were a barren wasteland that filled with wrecked cars and mangled bodies with every passing day. All day and night gunshots rang out, followed by an odd explosion or two. The justice system was dead and everyone fought for their own survival. All past morals had been abandoned. The point of life was to live by any means necessary.
One man shuffled through the streets, gently kicking bullet-shells as he walk. He wored all black and covered his face with blue paint and layers of dust. He was a shadow of humanity. He went by his business everyday; out to the store, pick up the same paper, leave the money on the counter as he walked away. He did this until the shop ran out of papers, and then returned them, taking back the money. He walked through the streets everyday with the same smile on his face everyday, but as time passed his eyes began to hollow, until all that was left was an empty smile of a demented man in a lost civillisation. His black self zig-zaged through the growing piles of death often looking to smile at each one as he did. His old croaky voice often made an appearance.
"Morning, Miss Ablehouse." Suicide.
"Fine day today, is not, Mister Roberts?" Gangs.
"Keeping trouble off the streets as usual, Constable Armstrong?" Shootout.

He lived in a world of his own. But, in a society like this, ignorance truely is bliss.