The chill air wraps around him, attempting to pierce the bundled bunch of clothes making its way down the street. Breath misting in front of him: the glare of the sun heats the grey air and causes him to squint up and down the street. Stepping off into the crosswalk, he makes his way over the faded and scratched white lines of the world around him. The mixture of snow, ice, and asphalt beneath him crunching slightly between steps.

It is calm. The occasional roar of a car screaming past him doesn't phase the frigid clarity of thought he mulls. Over and over in his head, the ideas and plans collapse, reform, and bubble up. Trying to determine all angles of his thoughts, desperately determining what might occur in thousands of situations. What might seem simple for some he agonizes over. Fleeting feelings one way or the other, replaced by conflicting opinions and thoughts. It is no simple task to think about something so large.

The cold helps. Cooling his head off even as it feels his brain is on fire. The gears churning, their friction heating his thoughts and burning out the different ideas before the less desirable ones can take form. He doesn't search for the right answer, merely the right question. A far harder task and one which, if done, will ease his thoughts down. The method and strategy will come naturally once he has determined the neccesary justification. Briefly musing about his life on trial, and himself as the prosecutor, leading the witness along to appease whatever his subconscious really wants or needs.

His laughter cuts the veil of the morning silence. The imagery and absurdity of his thoughts striking him as funny. It is a beautiful world, he thinks to himself. Looking around at the industrialized buildings around him. Mixed and matched with the old. There is no getting away from the old all the time, he thinks, it just takes time to break down the stones.

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