Late sunlight limned the clouds with gold. They were a promise of night. They were dark-breasted mountains; a kingdom that climbed out of a vast, windswept plateau. If you walked their steep and narrow roads, you might take your rest at a tea house which tipped slightly into the view, and you might drink spicy, creamy tea while sitting on embroidered cushions and listening to fine-boned harp music. In the thin, red-washed mansions nearby, old men read out-of-date newspapers and complain languidly to each other and dream of their magnificent pasts. On the rooftop gardens, bored girls write poetry on pieces of paper that they then fold into darts and send out, with no real hope, for the wind, the unseen dragons, to carry away into clouds.