Twenty degrees do away with me

Face. Face. Face. These people must all be 17, 18. I like that shirt. I wish I were thinner, had better-fitting clothing. Was that a receding hairline? Mine's probably much worse - I can't believe I look like that! The air seems much emptier here, I get winded so quickly, being used to oxygen that drips it's so saturated. Face. More faces. There's a belt I like. I never used to be this way, never stared down the passing bodies behind reflective lenses, never longed to jump ship, freefall into someone else just because life would seem so blithe, so much livelier through the vision of eternal youth. Lasting youth. They don't age; these generations don't pass. Just me. It seems I used to walk these halls, these strips of concrete - it was always cold, but was it this cold? I always had conversation, companionship, voices to absorb and ears to speckle - with worthless discussion - but discussion nonetheless! Where are you, voices from the past? Lost in the deep? Chicago? India? Why do you so willingly choose others? - and here I walk among you, entwined within you, the boy-cancer never meant to infiltrate. So many. Face. Face. Face. Smiling face. My left leg throbs a bit somewhere undiscovered, a muscle churned to life against its will, unable to cope. 20 degrees do away with me. There they go off to wrestle the world from its injustices, into its freedoms, liberate the good, endorse the capitalists, hold hands and share warmth, not walking alone, not smiling alone, docked in electronics, paving hot roads to bear the footsteps heaving with supposed goodwill, positive inclinations, sputtering nonsense. There's the door. Excuse me, face. Don't pause; I won't. Step through. It's so cold except for that blinding sun.