Poets have tried to describe
Ankh-Morpork. They have failed. Perhaps it’s the sheer zestful vitality of
the place, or maybe it’s just that a city with a million inhabitants and no
sewers is rather robust for poets, who prefer daffodils and no wonder. So let’s just say that Ankh-Morpork is as
full of life as an old cheese on a hot day, as loud as a curse in a cathedral,
as bright as an oil slick, as colorful as a bruise and as full of activity,
industry, bustle and sheer exuberant busyness as a dead dog on a termite mound.
(from Mort by
Terry Pratchett)
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