There’s a sense of purity in the mist. A dreamy bliss that hides the decay of the day-to-day. It brings her a great deal of comfort, and yet, she wishes it would clear so at least she can see where she’s going. Stumbling along, she’s certain that she’ll put her foot in dog shit, or accidentally step into the road and get splattered. Because of the dim weather, no one will find her, and she’ll lie dying all day long, run over multiple times until finally a lorry comes and crushes her skull all over the ground like an exploded watermelon. The thought of her dead body in the middle of the road, all squashed and undignified makes her extra cautious. Stretching her arms out, she stumbles along feeling for invisible things that may or may not be there. She thinks to herself this is what it must be like to be blind, and yet she’s never seen a blind person act as clumsy or bewildered as this. Huffing as she goes, she removes her rolling tobacco from her coat pocket. The moisture in the air isn’t good for it at all, and yet her persistence pays off, and before long, she’s flicking a match and sucking in a lungful of smoke that burns her lungs. Holding the match out at arm’s length, she tilts her head to one side, mesmerized by the tiny flame. It dances to its own tune, and then the wet air soaks it out of existence.