this essay is excerpted from my weekly patrons newsletter.

in the city of infinite grey the sun is not god; the sun is gold. there, both the locals and long term residents know that when the sun comes out — to run, not walk — to a tiny triangular strip of the canal, like chasing a gold rush: with eyes like shovels, and faces like buckets. it might last only a minute. but in that one minute, the way to drink the sun is with your eyes closed — so that you can taste it through the eyelid skin. it will taste something like a drugged joy.

maybe this is why, when summer comes and gold is abundant, the residents of this city will take their shovels and smash themselves into hedonistic oblivion. the city of eternal half-night turns into a city of blurry days. seventeen hours of daylight will make one feel immortal — so long as it comes with the knowing that it is only temporary.

and if you voyage to this city for a few weeks, you will recall with a pang the way in which, once, in the cities of your past, you took the sun for granted.

… (continued)

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in the city where sun is gold