Escape from the Asylum
Posted by Kristina Yenko , Saturday, July 24, 2010 1:43 PM
The story here presented will be told by more than one pen.
Of weary pilgrims of the London pavement.
The Night is dark.
The Night is young.
Ebony and Silver.
The air was at its heaviest; the distant hum of the street-traffic was at its faintest; the small pulse of life within me; the city sinking in unison, languidly and more languidly, with the melting sun.
The quiet twilight was still trembling almost sinking into the black gulf of metropolitan smog.
The idea of going to sleep in airless rooms, and the prospect of gradual suffocation, seemed to be the one and same thing. It was a violent fancy, almost.
The natural whiteness of the moon was a little clouded, here and there, by weather stains, by mechanical fluids that settled in its craters, acidic and dead.
Under the wan and wild evening light, two figures met, a grave between them, the dead about, the lonesome hills closing around on every side.
The time, the place, the circumstances under which they now stood face to face in the evening stillness of the dreary valley;
Only them, the forlorn creatures trembling by the graves.
White on white, pale ghosts of ivory, wisps of smoke rose from their breaths
And condensed into the night.
