Frustration brewed in his stomach and flooded his system as he realised that his cowardice and over-active mind had ruined his chances of reaching the party. It was a helpless frustration, and he sought for something to blame other than himself for his failure. He swore at the river, he railed against the vagaries of the weather and the unnecessary darkness of the night sky; he stormed at the insidious stories of his youth. The river below him insolently soaked up his insults, and continued to flow slowly. It seeped ever closer to the party that was being held at its banks downstream, mocking the efforts of the lonely man at its side. The sky was extremely clear now, as the last clouds vanished, and the cold that came with this was like the sudden chill of entering a long-disused room. Cold stars were glimmering vacantly above, viewing the newly revealed scene beneath them with indifference. Far off, deep in the flat vastness beyond the river, the jagged teeth of trees still held the darkness fast, and a lonely oak, planted by optimistic souls long ago, reached its heavy fist at the sky. The furious man gradually shed his anger, exhausted by the evening spent in such a spot. He thought for a time, half ashamed by his outburst, and resolved that he should continue walking.