The dingy streets, black as coal, looked gloomy and foreboding in the moons cold light. On either side, buildings reach, to scratch at the sky with crooked fingers. Birds of obsidian and death, croak their guttural cries to the sky before falling into blackness. A sudden wind, coming from some unknown place, blows through the streets before faltering from the weight of oppression around it. A windowpane flaps, bashing against the surrounding wall. The harsh noise, so sudden, arouses cries of protest from the crows, who come back to life before settling down again. My eye is attracted by a flutter of red. It is scarlet ribbon, caught in the hold of a fastened window. I cannot help but feel that a child left it there, forgotten in haste. The ribbon is frayed and tattered but holds its color, like a memory too sweet to release. Where are the people? I look around in vain for I know they are all gone and will never return. I reach for the ribbon, but before I pry it loose I pull my hand back and turn away. I mount my motorbike and drive through the dark streets, lost in a world of thought.