Emptiness clings to the fire escapes that crawl up the buildings, hanging on as reminders of how bad life can get. Things never used until tragedy falls from the sky or crawls out of the sewers. These rusty, rickety sentinels are all that give witness to the dull horror of this endless time.
Walking the streets, each the same as the last, watching for life that never comes. Signs of creation are absent in this dusty place, and yet acute destruction is also gone. This is decay preserved in amber. Underneath every surface lies a lambent glow, mutely and hopelessly yearning to sublimate into something more. There is no warmth here, nor is there the slightest chill upon the not-air that does not fill this place.
There are only the fire escapes, leading nowhere from nothing.