❈ — ; "May the Gods still weep for Troy. Never was a city quite as beautiful as her."
She's letting her essence revel in the fading light of an evanescing evening. Where the city's smog may wrap its fingers around her throat, and squeeze the oxygen from her vessel's lungs. With her back to a bench, and her eyes so naturally absent-- a single question is only uttered:
"How is New York treating you?"












