There was mist on the visor. I weathered the cold, brought my bloated and padded palm to my face and tried to wipe it off. To no avail, I realized that me breathing down hard was condensating against the frosty winter morning. I carelessly tilted it up, and I could breathe and see clearly, the gushing wind constantly reminding me to pull over for a cigarette, for any reprieve against the biting cold. It's been several months since I started the ride. I don't remember much before it, nor the motive for it. Just a hazy memory of me getting up one day from a cosy comfy bed and going out. I think that was the day, I have trouble remembering most of the time. But I think that was the one, since I haven't had the luxury of a bed in quite a while. I wonder, from time to time, what kind of person I was before all this. But the arsenic in the air hurts my temple, and the pain keeps my curiosity at bay. Was I one among the few lost souls that I've passed by over the days, living in constant fear and animosity? I only stop for gas, food and sleep. But I made an exception. I pulled over by the side of the road and around me was a valley of unexploded shells and ordinances and cold splintering steel corroding, where white rose meadows once were. A quick stop and I move out, I thought to myself. Today has been quiet and serene. But before long, the shelling would resume and the world would grow louder.