Obituary

The city died at 12:53 pm. All that is left now is a slight, sudden fragrance of life. The white palaces speak of unnamed phantoms at midnight, spirits that burst into light at dawn and inflame the air with urgency. As you walk, dust spirals into the air and envelops you in a mist. The city itself is a haze. A gash of a soapy hand across a mirror. The mind recalls certain curious elements of prosperity and fellowship. This card-castle crumbled in one deft movement of a finger. The dead mingle here with natural curiosity. It is in the wasteful pirsuit of happy memories that they gather in loose celebration here. The streets are fading fast from vision. Ruins amass on the shoulders of naked sculptures. The insects are moving away into the light, while the city plunges further into darkness with the burden of death. Death. Death, like the masterful swerve of a baton. Death, like an explosion of birds into the sky. Death, like a spinning, dancing dervish. Death speaks through the trees here, a wonderful, kind language. It speaks of wisdom and life. It speaks of decay. This is a city where you once lived. There is silence and a self-concious restraint in the walls and shattered glass now. This is in your memory. There is a growing gravity. A spreading quicksand. The dead are reclaiming what's their's. I think I will stay here one more night and see what happens.