Condensation Season

Condensation on the window panes, and on the Saturday morning walk to work there is an icy tightness in the air. Oh, this is winter, this is the coming season, and I do not do up my jacket because there is something about the novelty of the cold that is appealing. It feels like coming home.
After an absurdly busy shift at work which resembled more four hours in a hellhole factory (call after call after call after call... ad nauseum) I had a pint with James outside the Mash Tun. Ghosts of Telegen, I remember those old faces I used to drink here with here; Jen, Katie, Pam, Motley, Arran, Tom...
There is a clear lucidity about the air, a January light, and the sunlight falls sober and crystalline on the buildings, the temple-like church opposite the pub, the cycl;ists, the passers by, those whose Saturday night drinking has just begun.
Sat in my room with the curtains drawn and the windows open, and that cold is here again, and even the sounds of the outside - the cars, something rumbling in the breese - are lit through with the cold. A sound to hurt, a song to sleep by. It sounds like the distance.
I fell asleep watching the television, and only woke when it had gotten dark.