Day 3

A damp fog shrouds the glass that will be my prison for the next 8 hours. The dreary, tired morning is reflected in the empty streets as I look out on the city. The usual torrent of foot traffic along the sidewalk has been reduced to a slow, patchy drizzle much like that which is falling from the low hanging clouds that grow stale lingering near my window. The varying shades of wet pavement and the lush green vegetation, grown heavy with precipitation, blend into a uniform darkness, absorbing what little sunlight filters its way through the cloud layer. The horizon is obscured by a ghastly white apparition, in contrast to the drab streets below, which, like veins, continue to lazily pump automobiles through the heart of a sleeping downtown and prove that, despite appearances and premonitions, the city is still alive and breathing.

As the city awakens from its slumber, it exhales its foggy breath from whence the sun rose upon the Loess Hills, like the first light of day peeking through the slats of a drawn venetian shade. The sun's energy reanimates the city from the dead of the morning rain. The glare reflects off the bodies of the edifices, illuminating the shadows of despair and ruin until they reveal themselves as hope and possibility. The horizon is now clear of its haunt, giving promise that the sun will once again spill its life giving energy on yet another new day.