Cold, crisp, the air is like a lettuce leaf. I am high up and I am leaning heavily on a pole, chin snuggled in my warm jacket. Dictators who stand cloak flapping as they surveyed the extent of their power must shiver so much in their defiant pose. The long white beams of light from below swing from side to side, their colour catch on the low hanging clouds. There is no power in me and its a shame. There ought to be. Drama demands it.