There are an infinite number of ways to get inside the city. Most streets are cobbled. Some are dirt. None are especially level. When entering from the east, there is a rapid squeezing, a narrowing. A body is jostled, bounced, twisted, twirled, and not infrequently shoved. In winter, wheels, feet, and hooves churn up the half-frozen muck. Swine root in fishy water, vegetable matter. Towers strain, bells peal. Someone cries for a girl called Doll Lane. There’s frozen dung, whores behind a thicket, and a ridiculous dandy in white feathers who resembles a shuttlecock in tights. He adjusts his horned wig, moves northwest. An alley, a cat shadow, another cat. A body falls back into the dark space. Fingers brush the mossy stair. One uproots the night, dismantles it, like an inhabitant of a city that changes population with the dawn. One sleeps. One dreams. One passes the gate and one forgets.