Still. Nothing but the wind and the flickering of streetlamps as they begin to die. They throb and go out. A glow spreads in the sky, flaring up like a match in midnight blue. Colors rise on clouds, tossed and swirled by mythical winds. A red sun peaks over the horizon and patterns explode to a symphony of light. Curious displays of intangible jewels hover, unseen, watching, over the sleeping streets before they die, to begin again tomorrow.