Stepped off the train this morning into what felt like a wall of cold air—that sharp, nose-tingling kind that makes you question every life choice that led you outdoors. The station was weirdly empty for a Sunday, just me and a guy arguing with a vending machine that had apparently eaten his coins. I resisted the urge to offer advice (never get between a man and his vendetta against automated retail) and headed toward the riverside path instead.
The walk along the water was quieter than I expected. A couple of joggers passed, their breath forming little clouds that hung in the air like punctuation marks. I noticed how the light hit the buildings across the river—all those glass facades turning into mirrors, reflecting the sky back at itself. There's something oddly satisfying about watching a city accidentally coordinate its aesthetics.
About halfway through, I made the rookie mistake of stopping to take a photo without gloves on. My fingers went numb in approximately four seconds, and I fumbled the shot anyway—ended up with a blurry composition that could charitably be called "abstract." Mental note: winter photography requires either better planning or a higher tolerance for discomfort. Possibly both.