The emergency lights of a paper shop are on, a lonely trolleybus is drifting under the colonnades of a large bridge marking its way with the bright light of the empty passenger compartment, shimmering of the light on an inkjet printer, which has been left with the power on since the last weekend on the fortieth floor of a skyscraper abandoned by the people. The city is breathing, but there are no people. They have gone to sleep. And in their dreams they will see the synthetic waves with the clouds of guitar vibrations joining them from above and resembling the sounds of the outside world, which sometimes encroach on the dream and interrupt it.Â