Drifting smells of change, glazed cranial nerves, and the underbelly stench of the city. Pale, malnourished sky, with monochromatic wispy mid tones. There is a gray misty fog that lowered down around the concrete, and at times, I try while drifting through the clouds, to reaching out for your hand. You’re closer to me in a metaphysical plane than actual distance, for distance does not really matter.