The cold night fraught with danger and intrigue - man, them crackheads are funny. A jolly sad reckless irreverent bunch. Deathless angels wings blackened to the sky with the smell of scorched metal. I try to lay my head down on the hard concrete bench to sleep - the stars bright and clear all is well except for the piercing frigid wind. Like I said, I try to sleep but the Phantoms won't have it - troublesome little beasts. Lighters flick on and off in the woods sparking glass stems and the fags cruise at supersonic speeds so fast they pass without notice - lonely and petulant. I detest American fags.

Each night gets colder and more mundane and I am at the end of the rope - especially with my travelling companion. We glare at each other in silence over coffee tables of the world; eyes burning with hate and discontent. I know he wants to kill me so I just shrug it off with a haughty laugh. Silly boy.

Money finally runs out and it is all quiet like a mausoleum - the first leg of this trip has run it's course. Each night we gather our newspapers and booze for the long warmth in the cold night, but you wind up cold anyway. But after a couple of days doing a junky shuffle my number comes up and I am admitted into the hobo sanctorum. My constituent will have to wait a few more days. Son cosa de la vida, no?