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XII
Would be nice to wake up to the tickling effect of a beautifully patterned butterfly perching on the tip of your nose as the first rays of sunlight kissed your skin.
Would be nice to hear beautiful blue birds singing as they glided across the clear blue morning firmament. Such a taradiddle it would be if one could pad barefooted across the room towards the window to behold the beauties mother nature had to offer to mankind.
The rows and rows of endless, clean-cut green grass, the ethereal colours that splashed the morning skies as the ride of the round orange-yellow ball made the Manhattan welkin blush with different shades. The mountains in the distance that seemed to have endless peaks which projected towards the heavens.
These scenarios seemed to only appear in fairy tales, maybe Cinderella or probably in the countryside of London because unfortunately, this was no fairy-tale story. This was Manhattan — an industrial city right i
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