The Shape of Things to Come

I gaze from a glazed window on the 250th floor in the year 2075.

The world as city. An intricate labyrinth of buildings stretches long into the distant early morning light. There is no sign of life except perhaps for the faint disappearing lines of vapour trails. No green, nor trace or outline of a single soul. No bark from dog that fills the air, no scent from flower found. A world built high then left and lost.

The extract below shows a full size section from the middle of this work: