“They can just about still make out the towering cranes, concrete cores, and tops of glass towers that hope to define the city just a kilometre away. Scrambling between discarded refrigerators and adolescent birch trees, he picks a blackberry produced by this fecund wasteland and puts it in the other’s mouth. As they kiss, a cement mixer arrives at the island’s farthest tip, waiting to pour foundations that will smooth over a century of sublime degeneracy.”