the nine o'clock horizon is decorated with lights from the bay. everyone around me is shivering, making me feel the cold more than i should. my hands are idle, my eyes are not; catching quick glimpses of clothing, gait or manner. there's a smoker in every pack, people clustered around single cigarettes as though drawn to the meagre light. but i am alone, without a smoker to stand by or lean on, or converse with.

i feel small, sad.