I could feel the rigid and close-minded coldness, when I grabbed the doorknob to open the door. When I stepped out to the dirty concrete porch, I could hardly see in the thick, milky fog which surrounded the house. The grass was gray, and I could hardly recognize the blurred contours of the huge willow tree.
I felt the pocket of my worn corduroy jacket (it used to be dark green, but now it looked worn and gray, like my dirty concrete porch, my battered car, and like my thin and peaked face), and I pulled out a lighter. It was a cheap lighter, made of plastic, bought in some supermarket last night.
My fingers were red and freezing cold; it was pretty hard to make it work. But finally, I made it. The end of the cigarette glowed up in red — a lonely bright and colourful spot which was struggling with the cold, wet and bleak fog which found its way under my clothes, between my cells, beneath my eyes and my whole brain.