The city is a dark place, when the buildings are so tall, so dense, that sunlight no longer touches the ground. The spirit becomes electrical, emotion replaced by impulse. Imagine a heart beat, an electrical signal, a digital image.
It is an old story, that within the earth, at its heart, is a city. The city of Aghartha, the archetype of modernity. When trees are replaced by lamp-posts and streams replaced by sewers, the psychology of man must adapt. Many have tried to claim Aghartha, to fly their flag from imaginary turrets. That is their folly.
Aghartha is an internalisation of the concrete labyrinths which imprison him. Man built his own prison, to protect himself, and his own. Before the city there was no fear, but within the city there is a drab security. Outside is anarchy, within synarchy. The cosmic spheres once ruled, now their influence is obscured by the electrical aether. Man must build a city within himself, to protect from the city without.
 The King of the World, Rene Guenon
 Outsider, H.P. Lovecraft
 Brave New World, Aldous Huxley
 The Red Tree, Shaun Tan