(no subject)
It's a cold night. Layers of fabric bundle in vain against the icy needles of air that inevitably seep through, stabbing the skin with frosty teeth. My throat grows tight at the shock of it as I inhale, and a briefly lived puff of condensation escapes into the night as I exhale. The air feels empty, hollow, lonely. In this town, global "warming" don't mean a thing. It's all just climate change to me. My ears burn and my eyes sting and I wrap my coat around me a bit more tightly and carry on.
It's a dark night. The kind of dark that robs a man of his senses, and I don't mean just his vision. It seeps into the mind, plays tricks, it brings out the basic survival instincts, thought to be long since conquered and suppressed. There are no faintly glowing orange urban clouds to provide ambiance, there is no pale silvery moon to cheaply imitate the day. Just the stars, and, elsewhere, the streetlights. Just enough light to make me think I can see things in the shadows. Dangerous things. Watching things.
It's a windy night. The trees whisper and moan with a slight, steady static of white noise, the only sound that can be heard above the wild whooshing of the wind. Yellowed leaves tumble and roll across my path, collecting against walls and curbs. They call this the Garden City, but whoever they are, they didn't live in this part of town. If it were up to me, I'd have called it the Windy City, but I suppose that's already taken. Stumbling through the night, leaning slightly into the wind, I'm given time to think.
It's a cold, dark, windy night, and I wouldn't have it any other way.
It's a dark night. The kind of dark that robs a man of his senses, and I don't mean just his vision. It seeps into the mind, plays tricks, it brings out the basic survival instincts, thought to be long since conquered and suppressed. There are no faintly glowing orange urban clouds to provide ambiance, there is no pale silvery moon to cheaply imitate the day. Just the stars, and, elsewhere, the streetlights. Just enough light to make me think I can see things in the shadows. Dangerous things. Watching things.
It's a windy night. The trees whisper and moan with a slight, steady static of white noise, the only sound that can be heard above the wild whooshing of the wind. Yellowed leaves tumble and roll across my path, collecting against walls and curbs. They call this the Garden City, but whoever they are, they didn't live in this part of town. If it were up to me, I'd have called it the Windy City, but I suppose that's already taken. Stumbling through the night, leaning slightly into the wind, I'm given time to think.
It's a cold, dark, windy night, and I wouldn't have it any other way.