I remember how in the forest you could see your breath; a puff of misty smoke that escaped your mouth with every gasp of air. ‘The dragon’s gift of breath on an icy morning’ my mother used to say. I didn’t know quite what she meant but at that young age it didn’t really matter; all I cared about was the warmth her breath gave as she blew on mine and my brother’s hands, rubbing them between her own work-worn palms.
I wish I could see it, the dragon’s breath, but the city is too feverous; clasped in the radiating heat of the many machines that power it. Infernos blaze in every building, conta