The moment I was treated to just a slither of the view below I was agog. It was waiting for me to marvel. Snow flakes had been pirouetting through the air for some days and the streets were quilted by the purest of whites. Somehow it cushioned the air, dampening any sound made within its walls of soft shrouds, until the city became a low murmuring version of itself.
From the 86th floor the world pales into insignificance; up here, everything is diminutive at the mercy of my place of power. There is not a single face or a solitary voice, just jutting columns of glassy steel that peer feebly from beneath with envious scowls.
Where the steel blue sky meets the white caps of each building, a warm flame hue subtly burns. I could stay here until the sun orders those white blankets away again.