It is either day or night. On the Concourse little light filters through the smog and high buildings crowd out the light of the sun. The neon, flickering hoardings do little to illuminate the gloom. Instead they cast vague shadows on the passing sentients. Nastaran Zohreh, a slight human woman leans against a grafitti-covered building next to a hoarding advertising machine parts. She has her head tilted back and watches the world pass by through her narrowed eyes. A tabac stick hangs from her mouth and her hands are shoved in her pockets. Her right leg is bent at the knee and she rests her boot on the wall.