Let's try that again.

The air is sweet with the fragrance of blossoms, along with the occasional waft of air from the creperie down the street. The street I'm on plummets before me, leaving atop a hill, surveying the distance ahead. The view is framed on each side by rows upon rows of palm trees. As the evening sun pushes through the haze, the buildings of San Francisco disappear into a golden haze, followed by the ocean behind, followed by one last range of mountain cliffs.

There's too much beauty in this city. There has to be an ugliness reservoir around here somewhere, under pressure and ready to burst. That's the only explanation for why everything in this city is so magical.

(Hm. That's a little better, but not much. Perhaps tomorrow, I'll be clever again...