“There was now a distinct manifestation of morning in the air, and presently the bleared white visage of a sunless winter day emerged like a dead-born child.”

“Morning. Strawberry sky dusted with white winter powder sugar sun. And nobody to munch on it with”

“And now he was dead, his soul fled down to the Sunless Country and his body lying cold in the cold mud, somewhere in the city's wake.”

“Song falls silent, music is dumb,But the air burns with their fragrance,And white winter, on its knees,Observes everything with reverent attention.”

“Should Disappointment, parent of Despair,Strive for her son to seize my careless heart;When, like a cloud, he sits upon the air,Preparing on his spell-bound prey to dart:Chase him away, sweet Hope, with visage bright,And fright him as the morning frightens night!”

“As we walk back, it feels like the city is engulfing us. Adrenalin still pours through our veins. Sparks flow through to our fingers. We've still been running in the mornings, but the city's different then. It's filled with hope and with bristles of winter sunshine. In the evening, it's like it dies, waiting to be born again the next morning.”