Where glass is it is burst and scored - intricate with shadows.
Lit windows are edged with darkness. Austere and coldly shining.
Moths and night-birds, things that move by the moon, make their little sounds. What footsteps there are dissolve and are quickly formless. It is as if there is a fog, though there is not.
We who walk tonight come out of nowhere and return to it quickly.
China Miéville - The Scar