I say the sky is blue. But of course it isn't. It's a million random reflections of mettalic greys and watery browns, dusty greens and flashing whites and silvers. The sky is blue, but only with the eclectic blueness of a heavy, well travelled sky that had been watching over the colour cacophony of New York all night. A kindly but impatient nanny rocking a sleepless child to rest with an urgency born in fatigue.

I say the road is empty but nothing here is ever truly empty, which is the essence of natural truth, a truth one needs to get this far away from nature to understand. It's quiet but in fact it's buzzing, far away sirens, engines, the occasional valiant bird taking wing across the oily river, trains. People. One feels as if even across these immense distances one can hear the people. The resonance, the echo of their lives, like a persistant base line in a horror movie.

I say the wind is cold, but gusts of warm air from exauhst pipes engulf and envigorate me all the time. Cars pass me benevolently, acquiescing to the tenuous amity of cyclist and motorist that exists only in the shadowy confines of this unhurried hour.

I say it's indescribable, and despite the fact I've just described it, it is.

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