Most days are rainy. the city lights are infinite, revealing the stains on your clothes, the dirt on your hands, and the smoke in your breath. The fog doesn’t help much, forming whirlpools of regret like an ominous cloud. You’re taking a walk through central park like you do everyday. You’re searching for who you’re supposed to be. You think you might be miserable. So you take in the fresh air and exhale slowly, just to be sure. Remind yourself you’re still there. It’s merciless and cold. You feel like screaming at nothing, because nothing’s there. Or rather no one. You keep walking, your steps in perfect rhythem with your turmultuous mind.