Heat. Overwhelming heat. Smells, flavors, and tastes combining with the heat. I got to get out. Escape to the cold crisp air outside. Just me, my blanket, a pen, paper and I. The crisp air letting me breathe the breath of necessity. I sit writing. Writing a story of untold happenings. Writing about the hero that has showed me who I can truly be. I sit in an old white lawn chair. A lawn chair that for the table above it, is a place for people to gather. The table is an old white table with a glass surface. The surface covered in ashes from my Grandma's cigarettes. A slight chill comes over me. It is like a person came along and touched me so delicately that my body didn't believe something was touching it. The temperature was just cold enough to make me feel free, but warm enough to internally feel good. I look around. I am at ease. Nothing. I can breathe in and know that the cold crisp winter air will soothe the inflamed heart I hold inside to myself. I sit in tranquility. The bright stars painting pictures only I can perceive. The contrasting colors of the red leaves against the naturally green leaves. As my pen hits the paper it glides with grace. The words flow from my mind, showing me they belong. I can smell turkeys in the ovens of traditional families. The sweet potatoes grabbing my nose and trying to run away with it. The morning dew beginning to layer itself on the on the grass; getting tucked into bed for the night. The birds are simmering down from the chirping habits they possess. As they lay themselves down in their self built artful masterpiece. I can hear the silent sorrows of the drips of rain gliding off the surface of the leaves. The small rocks covered in water from the down pour. The drizzle that is dropping more water onto this world. The rain gathering in puddles that reflect the streetlamps. The glow of the streetlights; not bright enough to shine through houses, but bright enough for people to walk under for their own majestic peace. The crickets chirping in the distance, seeking songs only they can understand. All the other noises making songs in my mind; translating through the pen onto the paper. The slight roar of the busy Coburg road two miles away. It's all there. As I breathe in, the cold air hits my throat. The ink engraving a story on my paper.