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On Solarity
The Rage
From where they stood, the sun rose behind the city. Tall buildings that hid their gray in the predawn blue were suddenly outlined in hot gold. Long gone were the days of gentle mornings, of the delicate spread of rose pink and innocent orange. The east was a molten place; the city, an altar to all its rage.

She briefly wondered aloud what it would be like to make a different pilgrimage, one that came to the city from the other side. To see the city bathed in the cool violet of the dusk and the final throes of indigo and copper. He sharply reminded her that there was nothing east of the city; what had not fallen into the unforgiving sea was scarred beyond survival. Perhaps some came from the south, the lands of eternal, biting winter. Perhaps some came from the north, the place where the green had never died, where the green had consumed the coasts and the rivers and the plains. But no one came from the east.

When his head was turned back to the path, she made a rude gesture in his direction. He was always quick to mangle any attempt she made to turn the journey into something more beautiful. The angry city they wandered towards seemed imposing and violent - sharp shimmering spires waiting for fresh sacrifices. He still depended on her to find the true path when they came to forks in the road. Maybe, when the sun climbed high and the city was lost again to the thick noon-haze, she could misread the path, bring them around to the north and then past the city. She wanted to see the city framed by dusk. She wanted to think beautiful things of the place where she was to die.