Re: Vauxhall Gardens
See him embark to walk, like an ambulate skeleton off the museum rack in historical rags, a puppet show, with dispiriting grin and yet pleased underneath the freckled suspicion. His actions define his wordless agreement to stroll with the petite one and her pearled circle of a waist, lemon and whipped cream. He doesn't compare their neon social differences the way that onlookers might, the storybook princess and the fiend who prowls in the night, rather he’s been humiliated in the colorless woodlands of his short life enough to be remote to it, benumb’d.
You mustn’t tell her much, she’s suspect, think of it…
“Always recall that there was once a time when scarce a soul believed in such an entrance at all.” only this and nothing more, on the fleeing topic of that rigorous God, that ornately camouflaged sky-faced God, which had heretofore utterly forsaken our wolf child of the black meadows, from the time he was trickled out of the womb, till this very golden afternoon. It’s easy not to listen to thing within him and it’s swelling, awful thoughts. It comes when night falls only. That was the agreement!
“I, acknowledging such a thing is blasphemy in itself, as if those years before the good book never existed. What a strange rule indeed, to have cultural amnesia, suppose all historians consequently heretics, then."