The thick souls of snow shoes cling to the ground with stiff stubble, making maps of prints. Sam can see exactly where people walk most often, where streetlamp’s and billboard’s rays don’t have as much to shimmer off. They see a print of a dog’s paw, of seemingly a huge man, of a baby stroller, all throwing themselves in different directions. It’s a dot to dot of the geography of a journey, amplified and layered back into itself until its indecipherable. But Sam thinks on one journey: their own. As the car headlights track by, bulleting with chiaroscuro treads, Sam notices the absence of any other people. It is 2am, and due to life’s trivialities Sam really feels the need to get some air. But without the bustle it’s hard to know what the city really IS. The city is built into the snow.