As I look, out the window, from the forty-fourth floor Over the human-flecked, manicured parklands Past the glistening, glimmering Harbour and a flock of flitting gulls, in the distance I see, reflected, the ugly grey steel and passionless glassy facade of the apartment block where I sleep. And when I get back there, after riding the river of coursing commuters, their miniature tanks, battling to breathe in the choking brown smog snaking my way through the motorway veins, I stagger inside the lobby, the lift, my flat and knock the top off a bottle of wine. On my closet-sized, grey cement balcony I look through the eight o'clock gloom, the fluorescent manmade constellations, at the forty-fourth floor office inhabited through half of my rare waking hours, All the weekends and friends half-abandoned for a box floating high in the skies.