The Forgotten Host
Senior Member
You can't tell what happens under the smog of a city with such dashed hopes as London. A city where half the street lamps don't have enough oil to shine through the night, where the abandon slums somehow exceed the number of homeless, where the only way of coping with all the weight of a drab existence is a dark sense of humor that almost everyone and their dogs seems to have.
Flipping through the flimsy pages of 'The Observer Today' doesn't seem to help in the matter. An innocent little flower girl walks into an alley to take a shortcut home, never to be seen again. A renowned detective found mangled on the cobblestones of the city square, his final lead desperately hidden from pubic eye. A sailor makes it home, his mind shattered by the horrors he witnesses at sea. And then there is you, my bemused listener, a face indistinguishable from any crowd; an unremarkable speck in the cosmic canon, the minuscule worth of whom is reduced to nothing with the steady march of time. Oh soon to be forgotten wretch, won't you take part in a nightmare so shrill? Your flesh will be ripped. Your bones will be crunched. Your meat will be spilled. But there is a fleeting minuscule chance bordering on the non-existent, that your life will be a footnote in the eyes of eternity.
411 Crawford Street, if you make the ill-informed choice. In the Coffee Shop with the sign off-kilter, where the doors and windows grant audience to the most voyeuristic of fellows. Go there have a beverage, chat it up with the locals, and have a pleasant time. But stay in the wee hours of the night. If you know what's wrong for you. You won't see me there, but I will definitely see you, my delicious friend.
You wake up in a cold sweat, recounting all the instructions given, but whatever preceded it, a haze.
Flipping through the flimsy pages of 'The Observer Today' doesn't seem to help in the matter. An innocent little flower girl walks into an alley to take a shortcut home, never to be seen again. A renowned detective found mangled on the cobblestones of the city square, his final lead desperately hidden from pubic eye. A sailor makes it home, his mind shattered by the horrors he witnesses at sea. And then there is you, my bemused listener, a face indistinguishable from any crowd; an unremarkable speck in the cosmic canon, the minuscule worth of whom is reduced to nothing with the steady march of time. Oh soon to be forgotten wretch, won't you take part in a nightmare so shrill? Your flesh will be ripped. Your bones will be crunched. Your meat will be spilled. But there is a fleeting minuscule chance bordering on the non-existent, that your life will be a footnote in the eyes of eternity.
411 Crawford Street, if you make the ill-informed choice. In the Coffee Shop with the sign off-kilter, where the doors and windows grant audience to the most voyeuristic of fellows. Go there have a beverage, chat it up with the locals, and have a pleasant time. But stay in the wee hours of the night. If you know what's wrong for you. You won't see me there, but I will definitely see you, my delicious friend.
You wake up in a cold sweat, recounting all the instructions given, but whatever preceded it, a haze.
