"Piccadilly" by John Hall Thorpe

Light pollution. Gorgeous boxes of glowing golden-yellow, like fireflies, hovering everywhere. That is the explanation for so few stars. Layers of blue upon blue, but none so deep and dark as black. The light prevents it. And we noisy, sweaty diurnal creatures hustle and bustle about. The hum of engines and countless conversations fills the void left by the stars. We, lovers-of-the-light, scurry around monumental structures. One such monolith is a circular fountain, from the top of which an angel shoots his arrow back into the crowd. It is a futile effort, like grasping for a lost ring in the dark.