well, I write best when I don't actually have anything to write on

She walked home alone in the dark, watching shapes, not the people who moved between the cars and buildings with graceless steps. She looked up at the trees, the reaching branches obscuring street lights and tall buildings. If she smoked, she might have blown extravagant smoke rings up, to vanish into the darkness, open mouthed promises of times she'd recycle or make a healthy choice, promises she'd make just to break.