At night, the city speaks to you in a language unknown and to those who would listen, it tells its story.

A million lights glitter, each telling its own tale; each burning away for its own random purpose. Streets illuminated in the incandescent glow of tall, towering grey sentinels standing guard through the night. Empty rooms, light flowing from their windows, glittering against the damp walls of adjacent buildings. Headlights flow incessantly along the winding streets, each lighting the path of a journey quickly forgotten. Advertising hoardings, silently screaming their sales pitch into the night as a thousand nonchalant eyes pass beneath them.

Amidst it all, the cacophony of life continues its uninterrupted beat. Confused birds flock from building top to open space, to deserted street corner; drawn by the temptation of the discarded snacks of the midnight revelers who drift from pub to club to bar, following the noise, chasing the laughter. They're running away, really, from the stress of their week, prolonging the coming of another.

There are no stars in this city, but busy lights still drift along the heavens, following their well-trodden paths across the sky. They bring the weary returning travelers, the curious visitors, and the naive, fresh-faced newcomers. As a thousand pairs of eyes look down upon the perpetual story of the busiest city in the world, just one looks up. Perched upon the ledge, he shivers above the faceless crowds and cold, glowing streets.

It occurs to him that from their vantage point, they might still have a chance to guess its secret, to listen to its warning.

He wonders if they know, it's the loneliness that gets you in the end.

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