I love being outside in the dead of winter. The time of night when everything is silent. When the moon and the stars light up the world like the second side of the sun’s bipolar disorder. Everything is silent at this time of night, except for the shivering sounds of my labored breathing. The bitter cold soaks through my bones and muscles, straining every tendon of sinew as if it was attempting paralysis. Then, a flick of my thumb and a small flame appears, throwing shadows across the contours of my face. A small ember glows and swirls in the night, and I hear the faint crackle of tobacco as I slowly close my eyes. I breathe in the toxic fumes as I lose myself gradually in the sour aroma. The moonlight catches glimpses of the smoke leaving my lungs as it dissipates into the bitter night air. I shuffle my feet against the cold, hard ground attempting to salvage any and all heat possible. It’s moments like that when I can sit in silence and gaze at the true beauty of the world. Outside, at night, sitting in the bitter cold.