Flat gray buildings spike into the sky, renting the harsh blue overhead. Rows of windows encrust every surface, mirroring the weary orange-washed sunlight. Cars flash across the wider windows that line the sleepless streets, displaying an ever-changing array of fine things, new things, always more things. The streets are strangely empty of humanity; full of bustling, hurrying bodies. A deafening silence hides behind the blaring horns, screeching tires, behind the empty conversation.
A little boy watches from his cramped window, his fingers twitching restlessly around a pencil. A sketchbook rests in his lap. He examines the streets, frowning, as he tries to capture all of the people he sees every day. He sighs, giving up. The drawing pad stares blankly at the world from the now-empty window.