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The eyes of the city
Another day and another time he climbed the ladder.
Until he reached the very top.
High above the rooftops of the vibrant city. This was where he always came after his work was done. Sat on the edge of the tallest building and took in the city.
The plumes of smoke rose from the myriad chimneys of the factories, painting a dreary, gray picture against the sky. Almost like rising incense, he thought.
There he sat now, taking out his tin like he did every time he was up here... brown and shiny metallic, tobacco in it. It relaxed him to sit in this place, roll himself a cigarette, and let the city and all its facets wash over him.
It was evening, and the sun in its last throes seemed like a colorful counterpart to the otherwise drab city.
Brick facades, factories, and railroad tracks. That summed it up pretty well.
He soaked up all the impressions carefully. Let the sounds sink in.
He knew the same song the city played day after day all too well.
The ever-recurring sound of hammers on metal, the hiss of steam engines and the eternal rhythm that the wagons played incessantly on the rails.
He let his eyes wander over the streets. Observed.
Workers pouring out of factories covered in soot. Puddles in which oil gathered and which glowed in all colors.
He absorbed all the impressions carefully.
Suddenly his nose perceived something other than the tobacco, the smoke and the smell of the wood on which he sat.
Very subliminally at first, and then more strongly, the scent of vanilla, cinnamon, and a hint of cherries rose up to him from one of the windows across the street. Someone had to be baking, he thought.... and never before had he smelled anything so good.
He gazed melancholically into the distance, reveling in sweet memories as he took a drag on his cigarette and inhaled the tobacco deeply