It's dark outside. A cold, crisp black, edged with inky blue. Friday night and I can hear the purring of the cars. A Friday night when we have eaten chips and eggs and beans and sausages. Voices echo in the street, turning up the collars of their coats against the icy wind which chills their blood and coats their bones with frosty skin. "Suicide is a serious thing" he told us yesterday. Lowered his voice, paused and scanned the group with hazel eyes, "attempting is only ever serious". Silence. Each of us dwelling upon unhappiness, sweet fairy tales and the unthinkable, mixing pictures in our minds. Morbid morning staff meetings over tarry coffee. Thick and brown and over-stewed. In my friends bathroom cupboard there used to be a post-it saying 'all dark places don't need light'. The bells are ringing on this Friday night. Inside bricks and concrete buildings all around this town are lonely people. Desolation sat in empty flats with dinner done and nothing else to do. Friday night when the bottle calls and only alcohol can fill the empty cold. Friday night when sadness seeps in through the window, under carpets, steathily invading every corner; suffocating, damp and never-ending. Friday night will be here for an eternity of hours and then tomorrow will be, will be morning.