The street was filled with a hanging fog.

It was the kind of fog that occurred because the air didn’t want to be close to the ground and nor did it want to float to the sky and so it hung in a kind of limbo between ground and sky and congealed into a thick mist. A mist that turned the neon vapour lights into a twinkling mess of stars.

The boy wandered off the bus and into the fog of the night. He was tightly bound in an army green jacket that sipped past the reasonable stopping point of his collarbones and decided instead to rise all the way to his face. The hood connected to the aforementioned jacket was swiftly pulled over his cold ears and slowly began to resemble an Eskimo.

His breath found it’s way into physical form to join it’s place in the hanging fog. Slowly and methodically congealing with the outside. He walked carefully checking over his shoulder for any approaching lights – none – he crossed the empty street.

He found it funny, as he looked at the street, that at this time of night the street, that had been filled to the brim with flowing lights and steel was now devoid of all life. There were the high standing street lights that looked down upon the silent street, and nothing more. A gentle breeze and soft hum of a single engine were the only sounds to disturb the quiet.

As the boy forged his way home he grinned to himself. He plucked his earphones from his ears so he could enjoy the sound of his feet crunching against the ground and the City asleep.

It was a cold walk home after all, and he would cherish the moment.


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