The city is the place to find sadness. Like a large invisible blanket that floats beneath the clouds. It creeps out late at night. 3am. An awkward silence. Why does it not talk? A reply: a stranger speaking in the dead of the night, a motorcycle murderously cutting through the silent streets. I shift beds like girls change clothes. But it is still, the same city. A fake darkness in the sky. Lights from somewhere. The dawn brings more gloom. No hint of light yet. But a solitary bird has sang, and two more still. And there are others who sing. The mosquitoes. Songs everywhere! But not the conventional kind. These are songs with lots of spaces, lots of space. The instruments are dying, but they make such a play of time. And here comes the dawn. A dull crescendo, painted with drippy black paint. A moody torchlight, shooting sleepy flames into the sky. Well the dawn makes no difference. All is the same. Except for the one hundred changes that keep changing at the same time everyday. The sounds of the rickety auto rickshaws running to fetch schoolchildren keeps increasing. Pigeons of grey and endless eyes start flocking at balconies. Footsteps and shuffles in the still-dark corridors, forgotten by the sun. Fake alarms, real alarms, screams and shouts, reminders, pressure cooker whistles, car keys and sounds, rumbling engines and rolling gates. And of course, the crows. Remainders of the night, painted sans light, bodies of black, scavengers of the city floor. Spaceless spaces, suffocated earth, interlocking bricks, boring jigsaws. And also in the morning – hungry stomachs and pails of coffee. And the night is here too, in the coffee cups. Black, brown, some fight with milk, and take it further. Arriving Sun! Creeping in through holes in the walls, setting curtains on fire, floors on fire, faces on fire. Out into the day, the people go. Some resolved, some not. Some go to bring it to life. Wars are fought. On a daily basis. City by day. City by night.