Like how the forest has its dryads, if the city had spirits, they would be entangled streams of black, dazzling gold, rust; bright, translucent, restless like the flame of candlelight at the mercy of an erratic wind. They would leap and dance to the impatient beats of the indie music we listen to nowadays. They would sneak, weave their way around traffic jams, bouncing off the tops of cars, casting shadows over the mouldy surfaces of office buildings, blotting out the harsh red of car tail lamps as rainfall does. I would see them out of the corner of my eye as my car races along streetlamp-lit highways, beyond the windows, always there. But they would contort, constantly. And they would be always on the outside, out of reach, and I can only watch but never grasp. Like how I wake up to the honks and murmur of this city every day, how I sleep under the fluorescent gleam of the towering apartments outside my bedroom window every night, but still cannot understand or embrace or love it. The heart of this place eludes me.