The majestic city.

I see the freedom that every face has, and I know the relationship between these people –

this lifestyle - and a sonnet. Although they have freedom to do what they like, they are at the same time structured under the confines of the city.

They feel happy here, although they will never feel at home. To them, home is not this city, where the sun is always hidden behind the clouds, and the resulting grayish light reflects on people's faces, and makes them look wearier - and more unreal--than before. This is not home, but they are happy because they already have a home - a place that they can only keep alive, can only help survive, by coming here each morning, and leaving each night.

Please come live here, the people's faces say. Please keep us company. We are alone and lonely, and in our heart of hearts we are still children, crying for our mothers. This is a strange place.

I hear no music, no talking and no laughing as I drift down the street, but there is no need for anything like that. These people, I feel, share a bond - they comfort each other. The presence of others soothes greatly troubled minds and hearts.

It is like a patchwork quilt - each individual stitch reaching out to others, the whole thing coming together in a beautiful design. It is a mosaic - perfect.

The presence of this bond, heavy like a black thundercloud but comforting like a warm blanket, leaves no need for communication - talking is too elementary, too shallow for such a deep bond.

Yes, the city is a strange place, but the people are glad to live here, in the city.