Tonight, the skyline is dull. London’s landmarks have been devoured by fog. The famous financial district stands shaking, fearing the future. The twinkling lights have been erased, not by clouds, but by those who wander the streets below, those who are too sad to look up to the sky, those who are so consumed by their despair that they do not believe in lights anymore.

The sky above London is saturated with tears of grief, tears of lost love, tears of shame, tears of broken men and hollow women. This city can chew you up and spit you out, if you let it. We are disposable. We are tired of London. We are tired of life. But we are not to blame — the city made us this way.

By the Thames I breathe in. The air smells of denial and disappointment. The sky hangs heavy and all of the lights are dim. I think of you. I think about you coming home and I smile because I remember how the city always shines much brighter when you’re in it.