The two cities live their separate lives pressed together like the thin, yellowed pages of some ancient tome. In Laben, the sun never sets. In Lamal, it never rises. The true lives of the people comes in the to-ing and fro-ing from light to dark. Every door leads from one to the other, the thresholds sitting perpetually in the gloaming. In the void, the city breathes – a living, growing membrane stretched between the two frames. Time holds a different meaning there. Days turn like pages in a book, thumbed through quickly or pored and lingered over at the reader’s leisure.