Night streaks - moments of time caught between light, flash across puddles, and up across windows disappearing up to the cloud-strune sky. The water lies sporadically - residue from a season searching for identity.

I'm walking - my mind slowly building its igloo of pace and flow; distanced from what's next. Around neon flares, headlights chatter as ice forms in the air. I follow my shadow towards the vanishing point - cold stinging as glacial paths sculpt out my face; I feel the weathering of my features, the erosion of the years - and the building of character that I was always warned about.

But the cold, the effort - as I make my way onward - heat steaming from within my coat, scarf and hat, seem to justify my sense of age - of having lived (a bit). I watch the darkness dance across the hordings - the signs, the eaterees and take-outs - skipping Loki-like through cars and in and out of off-liscences.

The trance flickers - I stop to look around, blinking as I process where I am - letting stillness sink in for a breath. There it is - the pub, and my shadow winks: "Go in - take the weight off your feet, warm those bones." "Steady on," I think, "I've lived 'a bit' remember!" But my petulance fades with thoughts of warmth, the velvet of a beer and the chance to awake - seeing who and what is around... and who knows - maybe a dram. My pen ictches.

Ah well, bottoms-up!

The bar - or the artist as secret agent!