Draft

Today I woke, slowly, I could feel the blood coming to my eyes. They were no longer blurry, and my heartbeat quickened to match the clock ticking.
Hours passed, and I sat then by a window. A window under a cafe roof. The icey winter outside blew wind through the door, and there was a draft under me.
I felt sad today. Sad and cold, and I knew there wasn't any reason why. The windows were foggy and it was very hard to see anything through them at all, but how I wanted to.
A middle aged man walked in, hat on, nose frozen. He wore a leather jacket, worn in like his own skin; he carried a large backpack. It was dirty and salty on the bottom--from the ground, the floor of the transit bus, the grass in the summertime.

As I watched this man, feeling sad still, the sun came through the froggy window. It was the first of the sun for quite a while, and I sat and drank my tea in it's warmth.
Tonight, I layed my head on my pillow. It was cold, and the room was drafty as well. The blood drifted from my head to my toes and I slept in the cold, but never quivered.