The city is familiar now; he's walked miles of corridors, opened hundreds of doors, stood on the balconies and watched the waves pat and smack against the walls.
He's helped save it, too. Not single-handedly but he's no arrogant, lordly McKay, craving the limelight.
He just wishes that the city wouldn't ignore him, coolly oblivious to his presence, or icily polite.
Wishes it would whisper a warm greeting, as it does to others.
Wishes he had the key to it in his blood by right or sleight of hand.
Without it, he's a peasant sleeping in a palace bed.
Return to Home
Click here if you'd like to send feedback