This city bristles with steel and glass. They brought down the last of the slums in the 70's, struts and all climbing each others' sides like rusted entangled totems, shadowing the deep alleyways which choked under the weight of inhabited spaces, squeezing the city's blood along themselves in slow circulation. Cut loose, the struts fell, and in the clouds of concrete dust some thought they saw the veins of the city rise up into the sky, as though relieved of a great pressure, joining the clouds in their dragon-dance amidst the demolishers' floodlights. Ever since then, this city has been known for its extraordinary and one-of-a-kind sky; for the spirit of the old, with nowhere left to go, had spread over the new-born city in a fine dusty haze. And when first light touched them, they blazed.

The events of the past now string across this city in angry fiery bands, steadfastly refusing to die. In the business district they hoist themselves above the rooftops of skyscrapers and dance, madly, an aurora tropicalis amidst the cool lights below. They dip to the ground in places - the average pedestrian, shuffling on the streets, can often feel a sudden touch of nostalgia as they cross paths with a stray memory. Occasionally, the odd strand gets caught in a ventilation fan or bicycle wheel, and has to be worked free with a steady pair of hands.