The city's bridges sag over their rivers like hunchbacked men carrying too-heavy loads for too long.
On the streets, tired, dim-eyed cars float into mist as a foreign country's nighttime overtakes everything.
Orange lights glow in pub windows, the buildings thus resembling cooling embers from a scattered fire. They're the secret hearts of this world carved out of fog, those pubs. Their walls thump with rock, pop, and hip hop.
A tortured, mewling voice echoes faintly through the alleyways. "Come as you are," it says, "and then be gone with you."
The whole of Aberdeen sleeps on the threshold of yesterday, dreaming of beds.
In the warm thump of the secret hearts the people laugh. Nothing said ever lasts. Every word fades into fog rolling down out of the mountains.
Yet, for all their subtracted voices, the people stay, and in staying they honor a history of hard work and tough family. Theirs is not a surrendering sadness. No, not that kind.
It's triumphant and proud, and it laughs. It harvests life out of the hollow and doesn't give a damn for lying-down things.
Aberdeen is a mother feeding her baby after a double shift. Aberdeen is a grim lumberjack, hands numb with callouses, laughing with abandon as his son tickles his stomach.
Sometimes hobbled, but never cowed, Aberdeen is its people.
"Let's get to work," they say. "Our bridges may sag, but they never break -- and neither do we."