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The city pulls in around itself conglomerates, warehouses, and estates of industry; tendrilled tarmac motor tracks and shapes cut out of stone and metal.
Meanwhile aged lanes and alleys are much less neat. Stacked upon themselves, housing stacks of people, with sewers flowing with liquid gold.
A hulking, remarkable apparatus, like a giant magnet it draws each new piece toward itself to snap into place. It is astute and multifarious. A collector that eyes all those many Mechano pieces.
“Its present invents itself, from hour to hour, in the act of throwing away its previous accomplishments and challenging the future.”
It is the best of times when these many pipes and fixtures hook together, and the stories flow and eddy in all the places the city allows it.
“You can’t take three steps without encountering ghosts bearing all the prestige of their legends.”
The poured concrete is as porous to the rainfall of commuter and sightseer sandals as sedimentary cliff layers are to the rush-hour of the North Sea in January.
