A tour de force of frames, this portrait hems the city in its balusters and switchplates, picture holders and wainscotting, doorway fenestration and in last, alluring least, snowy squares of pocket cotton. Now permitting gray defends the rating of the page, performing an ellipsis' punctuation.
Ours is a city of coffee, lacking lines to split aroma from its hue, tasting them together for their worth, substance and infusion tried for candour both at once. A citizen, a city are the same. Who can pretend they’re not, has never heard of Ilium.
The siege dissolves itself in reading it.
Do you love them?
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