The city: crammed with towering, glittering buildings. Odd shapes—pyramids here; abstract contortions there. Layers of smoke coat the air. To breathe in is a slow death.

            Winter brings a relentless cold. The kind of cold which grows like mold upon the bones.

            Summer brings blistering humidity. The pollution oppresses, bearing down on its creators.

            A white blossom swings lazily in the median. In summer, sweating people hurry past, seeking an air-conditioned haven. In winter, the blossom dies, a stalk standing silently through the snows, only to bloom in the spring.

            But this is the city, and no one notices.