On a winter night my thoughts
are sewing together images and words
to form a warm mosaic
of places I’d like to be at tomorrow
when instead I’d be buried under the blanket buried under the fog
Scene 1. The steam of freshly brewed espresso fills the spaces between us, while the fog obscures what is outside the café. As we converse, we can listen to the homogeneous murmur of the overcrowded building; to a middle aged man in a red sweater balancing himself as he carries his tray past the miniscule distance between our and the adjacent table; to the bevy of boots that support the nebulous figures outside, making their ways to workplaces, studios, gardens, monuments, other coffeehouses and definitely, homes.
Scene 2: As our car drives past the road in the morning, we can only make out some features of the monuments and buildings that stand on either side of us. Only a semblance of an iron fence is seen on the left, while a huge monument is towering silently on the right, its details reduced to a lurking presence. The wiping blades of the car are in furious motion, and reveal other vehicles in the distance, their red backlights accentuated in the fog. A man is tottering on the footpath.
Scene 3: With four layers of clothes including a fur coat, and a muffler separating me from the cold, I am walking on the pavement through the busy street, hands sunk in pockets, my sighs patterns of fog I can’t understand. Through the white windows of the café, I can barely make out two figures conversing adjacent to me, probably one of the myriads whose confessions, whispers, excitements, love, business, have coalesced into a collective murmur and redistributed between all of them.