1st Paragraph of something

Break with the dawn in fog whispering of twisted metal along the way. Here hush and cold breathe with juniper and pine on streets lined with too many cars to be high rent. Brick on my way cold in morning undecided on winter or spring. Capewood comes and passes to Coddle where people are finally awake. The looks say i'm not welcome but not out of place. Strides come to pace down side streets with winds pillowed upon my face.