Days when the streets seem older than they are, set back in decades before this one.
Days when you cannot make your vision square with the haziness of the weather, or the pace of things.
Days when the herb and weed filled spaces are more useful to you than the spaces where business is being done.
Days where nothing is inscribed clearly, even in stone how something is left out.
Days when you will walk through the dry cold air and turn your head and catch sight of ways up, ways into spaces that belong to others.
Days when you should be at peace with the peace and find it all coloured strangely and suspended as if time itself has stalled and no one has the heart to tell you or acknowledge this.
And so keep on walking, and doing and making, all the while a burn in their chests, from the chill.