"Cold?" he replied, his breath caught by the wind off the choppy, dark waters. "You ain't seen cold until you've spent a winter in the Bearing."

It wasn't as if the impending death of the year was giving him pause for concern, but rather he had an unpleasant ache in his head from too much coffee and not enough sleep.

Even in the dawn, the white lights of the city set the sky ablaze, matched only by the rosey hue of the rising sun.

Warmth, tinged with the wind-driven moistness of the river, led me to fall into a slumber, oblivious to the clock driving to a splash of what was to come.

Sleep often follows me from a different time zone.

Darkness comes early now, quickly spreading across the city like a cold wind. We ache for warmth and light.

The morning sky begged forgiveness, bright with hope and brushed with the orange of the rising sun. I breathed in the cold air, thankful the night had brought me home.

He fell asleep with images of roads taken and roads not taken, choices made and choices not made, paths explored and paths left untread floating in his mind; branches and sequels had brought him to this moment in time, alone in his bed with the ghosts of personal history snuggled close to his warmth under the great, fluffy comforter.

I'd dreamed of her soft, strawberry-blonde hair that framed her pale, long face; it was perfection to me. My illusions were shattered when Sarah told me the shade came straight from a bottle.

Anger had burned the chocolate chip cookies: dark, crusty, blackened bottoms, they had been abandoned in piles on the counter, a message which spoke more than she wanted it to.

The rain was so thick he felt he was breathing-in water.

Fog drifted above the waters, enveloping the night in the city's holiday glow.

We've moved from Pearl Harbor to the World Trade Center, caught with our pants around our ankles and a clear desire for blue skies to last forever.

The big car floated down the street as he sat back in the leather upholstery and lightly gripped the steering wheel, hot, humid air blowing in the open windows and jazz music blaring from car speakers.

He brushed into the room, hell-bent on something unseen.

The summer -- blueberries underfoot and a cool Maine fog surrounding all -- was lost to him as he trudged through the bitter city wind.

Words dripped from the pen like late autumn leaves: crinkled and hard, they fell in the fading afternoon light.