We stand at the crux, the crossroad. Looking sideways; down the elongated stretch of path, a chasm of jaundice light scratches the night, as the chain gang marches, falteringly towards us, deep with exhaustion, from long hours in the gold mines. Moonlight would glint on their tools, yet the sky is overcast with vapours we cannot see. On the horizon the tower blocks soar, rising through the deep set clouds, hanging on the edge of cliffs; Their foundations undermined by the rush of  waves, It is perilous and sexy – “Strike once more Poseidon!”  It could be that the wind, having roused itself from intermittent engagement with its chore of the day (to breeze) has whipped through the whisps…