The rooftops I keep seeing when I close my eyes

I'm floating above a city I've never been to, and every roof is a different life — red terracotta, grey slate, one with a silver tar-patch that catches the light like a coin. Nobody's looking up, so I get to see the private geography: which chimneys smoke, which gardens are lies, which satellite dishes face the wrong direction. I've been sketching the same view for two days and the book has nothing to do with it. The city just won't let me land.