Three floors up, everyone was the size of a toy soldier. They all marched on, making a show of having a purpose behind their aimless wondering across the strip. Most of them looked lost, in fact, they all were in their own way.

One group walked pass, feigning interest in what the others had to say. This may be the only way for them to avoid feeling like a loner when term officially started. And so they dutifully marched on, with hope igniting their every step.

They say that the people of London changed their moods the way the weather did. It was true, to a certain extent. In the summer, everyone wore bright(er) colours and chatted animatedly on the train. Come back a few weeks later, for the summer rarely lasted longer than that, and everyone would be seen wrapped in their own thoughts, staring bleakly into their grey surroundings while draped in dark(er) colours.

Her mood was all over the place, easily swayed and altered by external forces such as her duties, the weather, the future, the weather, her friends, the weather, her writing and the weather. Stuck indoors throughout the duration of the warm summer months, the prospect of still being indoors while the weather changed around her made her sick to the stomach.

She craved the bite of the wind on her hands and face, the only parts of her body that would remain exposed to the world. She craved a deep look into the eyes that brought the aurora borealis over Norway to shame. She craved to bite into something succulent from somewhere exotic, who cared where?

Still, she wrote. Her future depended on it. The wind rattled the windows. Three floors up, they still looked like soldiers, marching purposefully into their own little futures and wishing to make the most of it.