The sky is pink, tinted with a dusky gray that transcends this canvas, creating some sort of blue. Billowing out of its essence is the moisture that is disguised as white. Raindrops fall and feeds the ravenous thirst of the Chicago streets. Birds mourn in the soft, endless downpour. They ruffle their feathers, chirp, and watch with their contempt swelled -- bulging out their down past their second layer. I sit there, fully protected by the rain and its morose. Hidden in my tower, where I live. I watch the pink skies drown the sun and bury the earth.