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The silent rays of the sun through the clouded skies were too eager to ignore. So the day had to begin.

You see dear reader, I was always a follower of the night. I say "The night" because we've gotten really close. As far as I can remember night has always accompanied me better than anything else. You see the energetic morning and afternoon seems forced to me. People do things because they have to not because they want to, in the most cases, or so I believe. It is almost as if night was created to just to wait for the forcible morning; horrible don't you agree?

I feel as if unmasked under the shades of the night, so much that I almost forget to even be sad. I am truly free. But how can I forget the moon? The one who spent sleepless nights right next to me? Long lost, and yet resting beside me still. I have no way of reaching that far, so I let the smoke carry what I cannot say — it rises, it thins, it is gone before it arrives. I send it anyway. The night would not be so beautiful without it don't you agree?

Well the eager morning had to begin now.

Bramwell was already living the morning, for it was not a forceful one. You see, dear reader, the weekend tends to be the gift the weekdays cannot give. People are livelier than they have any right to be, as though this were the long-awaited holiday — one that ends in two days, and leaves behind the hope of resting again in a week.

He had been ready since the early hours, so he tidied what little there was to tidy and decided to go for a walk. The weather seemed kind today. It shone his way a little brighter than before.

The pavement was greeting me as I was walking to the meeting spot of ideas. "Looking as good as ever" it said, and so the damaged brick wall agreed. I've gotten to know them quite a bit for looking up was a hard task to do.

Though I must say, it made rather a funny picture — this hunched man in a full suit on a long-awaited sunny day.

You see, we all have some ritual we perform each morning before the day is allowed to begin. For some it is music, or writing, or company, or coffee. For him it was the park — the bench nearest the fountain, where he would sit as though the water pouring from it had something to tell him.

Somewhere behind him, he heard a voice say something extraordinary.

"Hello."

Bramwell's heart closed around the last hope he had been carrying, and squeezed.

The park — all its bright chaos, the glare coming off the fountain — became louder than he could bear. The sun was too insistent. The wind carried the idea of a breeze without ever becoming one.

He could not sit through it. He turned.

Only to find the word had not been meant for him.

His hand, which had been reaching for something clear to hold, went to his pocket instead. The cigarette lit itself. He inhaled the fear straight back in.