What I See in Literature

The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,

my collar mounting firmly to the chin,

This is a valley of ashes - a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and, finally, with a transcendent effort, of men who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air.

The last one helps me see how the valley look. By the description, I see that everything around there is burnt and there's smoke everywhere. It's a very ashy place and it looks like people can't even be there. People are so used to it that it's just a regular thing now.