The half moon glares down at us as you stand opposite to me on the small balcony. Below us the city is a ghost, dead in the depths of winter and night. The snow stopped a few hours after sunset. Our breath billows out in fleeting clouds which can only be seen if I squint, just so. Here, like this. It doesn’t matter. I wrap my scarf tighter around my neck, tuck it into my jacket. The cold air still seeps in. You stare at the horizon, where the ocean shifts below the blanket of sky. I have nothing to say now.
A wind brushes past us and through the buildings lit by the moon. If I could have it all back, you say to no one in particular, to me? I’m never sure. (Rococo from The Suburbs)
So much Arcade Fire
