It's early morning, and there's a cold wind blowing.
It's early morning, and there's a cold wind blowing. Not your regular cold wind, but the kind that passes right through to your bones, that freezes your very soul, the kind of cold that can only be felt while walking home from a night partying, on a lonely Irish road at three in the morning.
Two figures are coming down this road, their heads down, eyes closed trying to catch up on lost sleep, talking to one another, hands in their pockets trying to shield them from the bitter cold. This night has been much like every other night. It began with high hopes, a staunch belief that tonight would be different.