0330. The early morning air is comfortably cool, save for the ever-so-slight breeze that sends shivers down my bare arms. Dead silence blankets the five blocks of 3rd Street that are visible from the porch swing I find myself on. Only the sounds of rustling leaves in the gutter and the hardly audible crackle of a burning cigarette dance in my ears and it's pleasant. Fragments of songs I listened to in my early teen years flutter through my mind much like the single leaf I watch descend in the glow of the dim street light in my front yard -- they waver most fleetingly from one ear to the next before settling in the bottom of my brain. The wind picks up, its frigid fingers inching open the front door of my house. The swing creaks, the old porch boards groan, and Sandy barks into the night from the back yard. There are no stars tonight in the murky purple-brown sky. The air is refreshing despite the night lights that pollute it. The last hit of my cigarette screams as I hit the filter and I can't think of anything but wishing I had my pack to light up anew. 0340.