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THE SKY NEVER truly darkens here. Light pollution stains the night a moody indigo between the gaps in the skyline. Foot traffic ebbs, alters in tone; itinerant families become replaced by rougher crowds, drunken revellers and hard-eyed women in skyscraper heels.
THE INTERSTICE BETWEEN seconds tastes like money and is viscous as treacle, with a moist heat that clings tar-like to the lungs so that every breath scrapes and drags. If the dead are condemned to occupancy here, it’s no wonder they’re perpetually depicted as hostile.
