Eyes can't help but follow long hair in long coats wind shaking the strands like snowflakes, their own little patterns.
The cinemaplex is open, negative seventeen degrees Fahrenheit and someone is still making money.
Wrapping around a blocked-off manhole I turn the corner too quickly, bump into a homeless man and his chair. He asks if I've any change. I say No, my pockets are empty.
Inner monologue firing, always, I cop the corner and take a moment to my physical self, ask it questions, How are you? You've been a slight bit distant during this time. Do you miss home?