Above the gridded night’s skyline, a city refuses rising. It splays, lamp-posts flickering into the horizon, sightless, bending in the distance. I can hear the slap and creak of horse-drawn buggies on the mudded main-streets, churning through time. That could be real, removed from the four high-rises; illuminated, lit where the peaks begin to thin – monuments folded at the apex again in black satin: a starless sky. For someone looking seven stories up, maybe the aqueous flow of television light floods my form, a silhouette standing at the window – these frail, stooped shoulders made mountains.