Some mornings began of love and hope, but there were also the disappointments. The sun had risen in a pale yellow, more of diluted urine colour than the orange of fire. The morning shuttered awake, as difficult and uneasy as a young child holding out against the inevitable time they would be forced out of the comfort and warmth of bed.

The sun rose naked. There is an irony in seeing and knowing the sun is a giant bonfire in the stars, and not being able to feel its warmth through the indifferent late February weather. Or maybe it was the Big Smoke. This city always had a way of taking the raw flesh and passion from the living, and leaving only bones.

There was something dead about the over-populated city. It had become a cancer, teeming with bodies still searching for souls. There was never a great divide, it was more likely the souls had slowly begun packing it in when the city started with The Pressure. Hearts pump life through the veins, but who is living?