The city is sore with movement, but still it oscillates. Busy people churn through grey-toned streets, their briefcases held close, rustling against trouser legs. The collective machine is tired, but each worker drives on. Gleaming taxis mirror stiletto heels, warping perfection. Laughter is rare, loud and sharp and these people want to believe they breathe, but airless buildings dominate. Smoke is lost above forgetful heads. Happiness is a silk label inside a lapel, a silver jaguar poised atop an aimless car.