Night City.

down the block the dark brick canyon of the alley, magenta and cyan signs reflected in long streaks down the wet pavement, rain drifting through the glow.

across the street the cart itself under a striped awning strung with paper lanterns, a round cook ladling broth in clouds of steam, stools lined with late night regulars, a cat in a delivery jacket waiting on an order.

at the curb steam curling off a full bowl in the foreground, chopsticks resting across it, a puddle at the curb holding the whole scene upside down.

down the block a skyline of dark rooftops and water towers against a pink washed night sky, strings of distant windows still lit.

across the street a dozen alley cats arranged on crates and vents with fiddles, a washboard, and an upright bass made from a broom and a washtub, the conductor cat on a chimney with a fish bone baton.

at the curb a tuxedo cat at the roof edge passing a hat to pigeons in the cheap seats, sheet music pages lifting in the wind with no readable marks, just scratches.

down the block the dark street outside the big window, rain running down the glass, one streetlamp haloed in mist.

across the street rows of washers spinning slow galaxies of color in their drums, a night bus driver asleep in a plastic chair with a paperback open on his chest, folded towers of laundry glowing under the fluorescent hum.

at the curb a kid in pajamas and rain boots sitting on a rolling basket, sharing a candy bar with a small round robot whose chest light blinks in time with the machines.

down the block a wall of blurred neon storefronts and traffic lights doubled in the wet street, rain slanting through every beam.

across the street a crossing crowd of umbrellas glowing from within like paper lamps, each a different color, their light pooling on the crosswalk stripes.

at the curb one small clear umbrella at the curb held by a kid walking a very wet, very happy dog, both lit from above by the walk signal.

down the block shelves to the ceiling stacked with dark glass tubing, coiled cords, and sign letters of every shape, all unlit and unreadable.

across the street a workbench where an old repairwoman in thick goggles bends a new tube over a soft flame, the fresh curve already glowing warm pink, a row of patients waiting, a flickering arrow, a moon sign with a cracked smile, a tired coffee cup sign.

at the curb a small mended star sign glowing steady on the bench edge, tools scattered around it, its light catching a jar of spare stars.

down the block shuttered storefronts and a bus stop in the drizzle, one warm window high above with a cat silhouette.

across the street the stand overflowing with night flowers, moonpetals that glow faintly blue, lantern tulips holding light like cups, ferns dripping rain, the florist an unbothered grandmother in a raincoat reading by flowerlight.

at the curb a moth in a tiny scarf hovering at the counter choosing carefully, a single glowing bloom wrapped in plain brown paper, coins on the counter.

down the block the dark tunnel mouth and the long tiled wall of the platform, a wet staircase descending from the street with rain dripping down its rail.

across the street the glowing train windows sliding past, each window a small lit scene, a dozing musician with a cello case, two bakers dusted in flour, a dog with a transfer ticket in its mouth, a nightshift nurse watching her reflection.

at the curb on the platform bench, a small paper crane someone folded from a transfer slip, and the station cat sitting at the exact spot where the doors will open.

down the block a quiet intersection shining with rain, every neon sign doubled perfectly in the black mirror of the street.

across the street three kids in raincoats crouched with clipboards and a magnifying glass, charting the deepest puddle like explorers over a new sea, a paper boat with a birthday candle mast anchored at its shore.

at the curb the great puddle itself in close view, holding the whole neon skyline upside down plus one impossible extra tower that exists only in the reflection.

down the block the wide night city below, windows glowing in the dark like embers, rain sweeping across in soft curtains.

across the street a shack of corrugated tin and cables crowned with a tall antenna ringed in soft static glow, its open door spilling warm light, egg crate foam and dangling microphones catching the drip from the roof edge.

at the curb the DJ, a big serene pigeon in headphones, one wing on the mixing board, a thermos beside a microphone catching rain on purpose.

down the block the street at its quietest hour, sky just beginning to pale at the rooftops, neon signs winking out one by one down the row.

across the street the lamplighter, a tall coated figure with a long brass pole, touching each streetlamp so its light folds up into a small warm bird that follows the pole, a ladder of sleeping birds already perched along it.

at the curb the first pigeons of morning on a wire watching, a bakery door propped open with warm light and flour dust, the last lit lamp holding out at the corner.