Never will a pure rain rinse them clean. Never will an actual cloud lend them shade. In all their fixity they are doomed. They were built for the ages in lasting stone, and their durable construction is the only reason they still exist now. Not because they have any force or presence. They are like old silver coins that have no value as currency. The flimsiest banknote is more actual.

It is of just such ridiculous thin material that the new parts of cities are built. There are walls you can pinch between finger and thumb. There are tenements of wood and hollow brick. There are shingle roofs that children might have draped. Things stand and fall and are rebuilt. Moments ago they were white and gleaming with fresh paint. Now they are black as rotten teeth. Each street a gaping mouth.

People live here. People with ambitions and desires. Even the unemployed. They step out. Why hang about? What is there to see here? Children play in the middle of the streets. All the windows are identical. All the doors are identical. Only the numbers on them are different. All the people are grimly determined to reach their destination. Perhaps it is the dole office. Perhaps the co-op. Perhaps it is a meeting hall. Perhaps a break-in. Perhaps the revolution. Perhaps it is the cinema.

Oh, but it matters so little! One destination is like the other. One city like the next. Each street like the next.