From the bridge, the city looked as if you could scoop it with cupped hands.

She was no longer the damsel of the big screen and the big words, but rather a specter cloaked in symbols and metaphors to the individual imagination, a stubborn unreality one refuses to let go of. Slain by the weight of a thousand ideals, battered by the strengths of our youths and impracticalities, she became less of a charmer and more of a chain to the disilussioned dreamer. Stoic as her statue still, yet tired and wrinkled, she could no longer feed our fire with her bright lights, her innocuous flame.

-gypsywrites