From behind the paned glass I observe a chaotic circus;
Screeching tires, broken window pains, slabs of cracked concrete,
The trembling presence of skyscrapers, protruding uninvited into the night sky,
The blood curdling shriek of a siren - just out of sight, noticed but unknown,
The faint shimmer of lost coins beneath a stampede of thick soles, abrasively striking the cold, hard pavement,
Doors slammed shut amidst electric arguments, broken promises, disproved dreams,
Long rows of expired parking meters,
The burning skeleton of what once resembled a car, strewn cruelly across a nameless intersection,
The huddled masses of people, eager, curious, yet afraid,
Converging on the scene of the crime, pointing accusing fingers amidst confused yells and terror,
The constant claustrophobia, surrounded by foreboding masses of steel and concrete,
Uncomfortable with being merely a number in an infinite world.

And within it all, nestled between the crooked street signs and burnt out halogen bulbs resides the sweet smell of half-baked bread,
The ever-bubbling stew of mindless chatter, filling the streets, and shops, and hotel lobbies with a reverberating and familiar buzz,
The scratchy melody of your favorite childhood song, emanating outwards from a taxi cab, as it zooms by in a flash of mustard yellow,
The faint twinkle of a star, burning brighter than a million city lights ever could, a beacon of freedom in the vast, dark ocean of the night sky,
Gentle reminders that there is still beauty in an unforgiving world.