"Those who love life do not read. Nor do they go to the movies, actually. No matter what might be said, access to the artistic universe is more or less entirely the preserve of those who are fed up with the world." I watch a man cross the street. he is wearing black pleated pants, leather shoes and an old torn black leather winter jacket. He holds his hands to his mouth and heavy breaths form a soft cotton mist around his face. He stands in front of me furiously rubbing his hands together and says, "cold weather today, eh?" Finishing his thought by spitting on the ground. I stare at the mucus solidifying on the wet cold pavement preserving several forms of hepatitis and respond, "yes, you're right, it is cold." Like any other response could be formed by such malinformed rhetoric. Silence filled the empty gap between the two of us, waiting for the light to change so that this could just be another forgotten memory. Like anything though, especially in the cold moments like these seem to freeze like the season making seconds feel like years. When the light turned green he leaped across the street to the feigned sound of a starter pistol. he ran in short steps almost like an ostrich, his head bobbed rhythmically up and down while his hands rested in his pockets. I can't explain why my next actions occurred only that I did them: I ran behind him clutching at his coat tails yelling out, not his name but one word over and again louder each time, "dad!" Followed by, "please, don't leave me again!" The drivers at the light halted in confusion past two lights at the terror in the strangers face. His face went pale and the fat in his face withered away until he was nothing but bones laying in the road. My tears froze before they hit the ground and I collapsed with nothing more than petrified winter icicles and a collapsed sense of who I really was.