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The sun is shining; direct, incandescent, brilliant; highlighting the stones in the sidewalk and the third stories of old brick buildings that are torn apart and exposed and being renovated by a handful of men in wifebeaters and hardhats, carrying shovelfuls of debris to a tube that leads to a dumpster on the ground. It highlights the cloud of dust that follows down the tube like smoke off of a wick. It muffles the clunk and the sound of airplanes flying overhead and dogs barking. There is a shaggy black cat with a couple white spots pawing around in the grass in the front yard, enamored with butterflies and leaves. Over one hundred years of murk is climbing up through the drain in the bathtub, and when the television is finally turned off at night, it grips the entire building. The clouds just outside of the city have enormous stilts to hold them up. I can't quite imagine climbing up one and looking down without beginning to panic. Looking down, you see that front lawns are pell-mell and sidewalks are crumbled indefinitely and fences are rotten and crooked.