I can understand a cold wind, one that moves through every part of your body causing your muscles to contract in a rapid harmonic wave. Bone-chilling, it pushes its way past the protection of your skin and continues to swirl, tossing your blood up in a tumult within your veins. But the still cold, that is truly unnerving. It's a looming threat, settling on top of your thoughts and encapsulating them in a timeless sphere. I try not to breathe, for hope that my breath will keep body working, but it's desperate to get out. With the wind each exhale disperses quickly, joining the rest of the freezing air as if it never came from me to begin with. Today there is not movement, and with no movement comes no sound. My breath seeps out and hangs for a moment in a warm cloud before the cold sets in. I watch it solidify before my eyes, and with its new chilling weight clamour to the ground before shattering into thousands of pieces. It's the breath of cities, stationary, waiting to be inhaled again. 4 am is the best time to be awake. Your eyelids have grown accustomed to their heaviness and find their way to the middle of your eyes. Things become more apparent, the rise and fall of your chest, the flicker of the courtyard light, the burning paper from your cigarette. No one moves, no one is out, my footsteps echo for ages down four flights of stairs, but the moment the noise reaches the open door, the echo is stifled by the motionless cold. In your exhaustion, you miss the ground, and step out onto air. It's the perfect time to fly, who would know, who would care. You've forgotten what the etching sound of pen on paper is like, it has been a while since your thoughts could flow like this.