Re: Vauxhall Gardens
Reminds him in those little circlets of youth, small children in large, overgrown hand-me-downs, foraged from a urine-soaked gutter adorned with a deceased, feral dogs, cheeks and naked necks filthy in London’s blare and steam, grinning toothlessly, playing in the typhoid streets. They stand so near one another to speak of secrets no one else sees and imaginary worlds, much as she and him are now, only in the antithesis of environs are they currently. A gilded place of fertility with its veiled eyes to what thrives elsewhere in decay. It unnerves him, how proximate the sugar-fairy is to the rat-king, and thrills him in the same. Nobody ever stands near to him.
“Poland can be ripe with warm color, but can be frozen, barren and ill.” It is with these few words a lilt of the tongue is evident in his drawl, faint marks of his nationality. “People immigrate to London because of myths.”
The skin of his right hand has an urge to know the journey in texture of her petite feline neck, yet does nothing but twitch. He hesitates about the dream… gawks intently so at a posy on a wall, the colors bleed. He lies, whitely, because in essence, ‘HE’ was forced by IT!:
“It was an awful sort of place, a rotted garden. I wasn’t myself, and a strange creature without a mouth to speak forced me to help in cutting another creature’s abdominal. I’ve told no one of this, for shame.”