You never get used to the cold, you know. Or the change. You convince yourself that you've done fantastically, that you've learned a life lesson because you've walked so and so miles and now your socks in your boots are wet. Wet socks mean achievement, you tell yourself. You eat your cigarettes when you're drunk and stumbling on modern cobblestone. You hate sleeping alone on the mattress with the springs poking out in odd places, so you instead listen to shadows shifting their noisy feet on your dead carpet. You wonder how this city is still capable of holding oxygen, whether it's even there or not. You promise yourself you'll go to the park on Albert Terrace every time you pass by on the bus. 'Next time'. 'When the weather's better'.'With someone'. You try to come up with reasons why everything stopped all at once. Is it because you have nothing to say? Is it because you have too much to say? Do you not see the beauty that surrounds you? Don't you want to keep it forever? Well, then, why don't you say something?