I’ve been walking across the London Bridge for a week, every night, around midnight. Every time I did, I wanted to do it. But every time I placed my hand on the ledge, I felt something pulling me back.

I don’t feel anything tonight.

The sound of brakes shrieking in pain from stopping on time and hearing the exhaust pipe falter on the beaten up asphalt. The plane wasn’t level anymore. It had bumps and holes and curves and tire pieces left over. It had chipped paint and metal filling the holes. Some have said that children’s wooden toys and wooly bears were left sprawled around the once glossy smog-filled terrain, smashed by the impending round wheels that took with them their cries and whimpers.

Tired of stepping or sidestepping dog turds. On every small street, every five meters, two or three of these not-so Turkish delights and sprayed about, providing passersby with a lovely aroma to wake them regardless if it was one in the morning, five in the morning, or seven at night.

Winters were the most delightful of times. The whiteness of the sky pellets made people flee in terror and take out their heaviest coats and knitted wears and storm down store aisles, leaving mud and slush behind them, letting the common workers do their job, instead of them chatting with their colleagues.

The pure white snowmen seen in American shows could never be reciprocated here. The branches were never as crisp, as big, as nice. The buttons weren’t round. The hats were never that never high and the carrots never that long. Oh, and the snow had dark and brown particles all over, almost like a sort of a mean aura that said something about Town A.