The bitter winds in the land of morning calm rips the skin off my hands one flake at a time. It forces my pace to quicken. The sting makes my heart heart pound. I can feel it in my nose, on my ears. But it feels fresh.

The faces I pass soar by like stars to a comet. They give off a light that is so dependent to the universe that circles them. Its just hard to know that when your travelling so fast.

I continued walking down the street, passing men in suits and women in skirts. Their black black hair combed perfectly. Their pencil thin ties don't move. Their hair doesn't come undone. How many are there? I used to drive a distance twice as long, in a different place, a long time ago. If I left on-time (which was usually slightly late), I would see Mr Carter opening the door to his black BMW, raising his pinky finger at me as he balanced his phone to his ear. His eyes would never look up. But I knew the day had begun.

How many do I see now? Maybe a hundred Mr Carters, maybe two hundred. All shuffling along, like cattle to the belt that will move them into the killing floor. I might believe that, if there weren't so many on the way home.