The dark smoke cascaded through the window like a waterfall, shrouding the city in black. The very hearts of the people seemed to beat rhythmically as one, evading the approaching fear.
Death was apparent. They refused to look into its eye. Slowly, music began to sound. A soft syllable pronounced with much hesitation echoed through the city and was soon joined by the souls of the rest.
The city was engulfed in darkness and a sulfurous smell emanated from every street, every shop, every corner house. The acrid smoke made its way into the spirit of the people, to steal their very humanity.
Song resounded through the dark city. A city which would not be plunged in grief. A city which had risen from the ashes and would do so for generations to come.
People died, their souls as black as coal. They walked the city to spread their disease, poisoning those in their way. Again, the people sang, to counter malice, anger, hate. To ward of that veil of misery which was headed their way.
Every day, they were destroyed. And every day after that, they rose. To conquer. To overcome. To believe. To hope.
And though altruism was destroyed, it was gained again. They built the city. Singing through the streets, they repaired the walls. Nourished the innate qualities of man, to make him stronger. He was built from the ruins of a holocaust.
And thus the writer lifted his pen, humming to himself. The smoke was malice, the city his dreams, the song his hope.
And the story was his life.