There is no spring in Rust City. The sticky rainy season has just passed, and the heat is like a dirty rag soaked in sweat and rust, covering the mouth and nose of every alley. Most of the buildings here are still in the 1990s. The walls are peeling off, exposing the blackened bricks inside, like scars that cannot be healed. The streets were narrow, and wires criss-crossed overhead like spider webs, cutting the already stingy sky into pieces. After nightfall, the neon lights turn on, and the cheap pink and pale green light flows on the wet ground, reflecting the young faces squatting on the street corner smoking. Their eyes are wary, blank, and have a trace of cruelty tempered by life too early.
