There is a sheet of searing, fuzzy lightness over everything and an overwhelming tinge of exhaustion that flavours all things concerned. I wish I could run behind the wall of the mild morning fog and stay away forever. The light above me, shaped like a big inverted handle-less teacup, flickers, subtly displaying numerous variations of its creamy white light, while Juana Molina's dreamy voice sings No Es Tan Cierto into my ears. Conversations by random people around me sneak in like a cold draft emerging from under a fragile door in a closed room. I should embrace the darkness and kiss the salty remains from my soul as winter sets in once again. This is going to be yet another long night.