Invisible, intangible, adrift, Picayune sees the things those earthbound fools miss.
For example, a man in black evening wear, standing bolt upright and bobbing up and down as he flies through the air. He looks exactly like Christopher Lee's Dracula.
Birds roost atop a tall gallows, looking like large crows but with dove-gray bodies, only their heads black.
A lone white glove brushes past, close enough for Picayune to feel it. It moves slowly, but with purpose.
A trio of boxy things circles overhead, beating their tiny wings like hummingbirds, long spindly arms and legs hanging underneath them like craneflies. Their golden metal limbs are not so different from those of the drone they'd awakened back in that dump of a neighbourhood they just left.