This is a different world....writing blind, under the moon's dim light. Soaking up the wind, as it blows gently - but steadily.
It's difficult to fully appreciate the way it blows, constant, without pause, when you're in the city.
Surrounded by barriers, obstacles that break it up, channel it, trap it.

But now, the city's nothing more than points of light, drifting noises, that float up to me.
Now, all i hear is an echo of the past...sounds that have outlived their purpose. I wonder how many have already decayed before they reach my ears?
How much laughter dies, never to be shared by more than one? How many tears fall silent, to evaporate under the warmth of a cheek...

......never to be brushed away gently, by the caring hand of another?

Me...pen on paper's the only sound I make tonight.
As I slip on a gray woolen jumper, the wind gains force...and my tears barely have a chance to form, before being blown dry.
The only sign of life is the headlights of distant cars, moving through the city I look down on.

And screams of a baby reach up, from the houses below. It knows....

It's alive