There's no notification, no posters stuck on lamp posts, just the sudden bustle of workers and performers, and the tent, a spectacle of burgundy and silver silk rising into the air.
You're drawn in, drawn by the scents of circus foods, of hot pretzels and cotton candy and off-brand Coca-Cola, and by the shouting, and by the damned tent. Where did it come from? Only the night-owls know. When you went to bed, it was all an empty lot. But not now.
Before you know it, the circus seems to have leaked out. Performers run the streets, spitting fire, throwing knives, dancing and twirling and bending in ways the human body shouldn't bend. You can't help but watch it, so beautiful, so unlike your life.
It all comprises a silent message...
The circus is in town.