by Diana Altman Shiona Das ​He hears the city wake up with the faint whoosh of a few cars then the rumble of buses and the scraping on the sidewalks by who knows what instrument and the clang of trash cans then the sound of people and the light coming in at the edges of the shades getting brighter and brighter then the metallic four notes of Greta’s iPhone alarm, that infernal tune that tortures him every morning. All day he will try to shove aside thick murk, all day pushing