The cool dampness of the winter’s fog caressed the stubble on my weathered cheeks as the foghorn roused me from my stupor. Its wail was just like hers, never giving me a moments peace, no respite for the near-wicked, she would always say.
I started, shifting my body upright and away from the cold, stiff concrete. Another hour done and gone, I thought, as I wrapped my old coat closer around me and again stumbled out from between the wooden crates, pulling and lighting the Camel in a too-smooth move that said in a second just how far gone along I was.
It was a dark and stormy night. Cold down at the docks, and cold everywhere else. Coldest in my bones. Moist steam from the grates and Camel’s welcome smoke mixed with stale breath and the damp fog, managing to dull the stench of the harbour’s dead rotting fish. At least there was that.
Three more hours, and three more turns around this dark and dank hole, and the rising sun would drive me away from this place. Drive me away for good. I’d been here long, and when you stay in a place too long, it seeps into your bones and changes you. Changes you into things you’d rather not think about. Especially not in the light of day.
It was time to pack my case and move on.
Yeah. That Noir106 gig was starting to look pretty good.
Time to go make some Art.