He sat under the new moon, on the new year, on the first day, at the start of a new work week. The beer was cold, the tip of the cigarette hot, and his heart somewhere in between. Sunlight reflecting off the moon was the only light provided, but it was plenty. With nothing worth casting light on, there was no need of light. A few fireworks popped nearby, unseen but reflected off the mountain-sides. Nothing about the scene was particularly attractive, it was the composition of everything that brought it together. The details, so to speak. In between puffs of his Camel he would rest it in the tab of his beer. His army surplus coat had mismatched buttons from years of hard use. The way he crossed his legs wasn't the typical crisscross, but one leg set directly on top of the other. Enough light was reflected off the snow to light the pines from the underside. Sometimes a stray echo would shift the wind ever so quietly. It was these details that brought the whole scene into one coherent reality, one cohesive reflection of the inside of his mind. His mind was in calm turmoil, a sort of a teacup in tempest so to speak. Despite the fact that everything was at rest, he could not find peace. No, it was in spite of the peace the he was able to find unrest. For within all these new beginnings, he could find nothing but the same old self.