The city of Ör can be reached in two ways: by surface or by tunnel. The western flank of the city is a reinforced shoreline, dotted here and there and there with docks and shipyards that prickle with cranes. Any sailor may look eastward and see a shoreline haze, but no city at all. Train divers always see the city as a set of vast arches in a cavern of stalactites; these arches are continually-bathed in the glow of spotlights. Ör is a downward city. Though crowded with towers, they are invisible from sea and from air, because each of these towers extends deep into the bowels of the earth. Ör is city where the midday sun never reaches its depths; the roof of the city is veldt-land and forest, though any traveler, any resident, and any lost wanderer may stumble across huts on motorized stilts: whole villages of such nomadic huts strolling the perimeter of Ör, never straying beyond the invisible membrane of the city’s borders. Only the depths of the city remain motionless, though its labyrinth cañons buzz with zeppelins and heated-air balloons. They moor themselves to balconies and to piers, spilling travelers into the walls of the city, or accepting travelers bound for elsewhere. More than three million people live in Ör, all going about their business at all times of day. The cafés are always crowded. The parks are loud with the chatter of children; at all hours, lovers stroll—hand in hand—through the aquaria, peering at anemones. The streets buzz and hum with traffic, but one may only ever see a single pedestrian on foot; no one can explain this phenomenon. Ör is filled with pedestrians, but always, always, and always, only one of them is ever visible at any given time. It takes a long time to reach Ör. It takes a long time to leave. * Maybe I’ve been to Ör, which might explain my absence here. Trips to that city aren’t quick. As always, thank you for viewing, reading, and commenting, and from the looks of things, I have a lot of catching up to do.