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Description
He waltzed with mystery in the midnight hour, hand in hand with darkness and mystery.
Dipping his hand in the cool velvet fog of the North Sea, entering dry and warm; escaping wet and finding only pearls in those sight evading depths.

And how he danced! With graceful arabesques and dragonfly wings bearing him through the air! How he waltzed with the hand of death in his, holding his hand surprisingly lightly; like a teenage girl, those bones felt so soft and smooth and right against his palm and looped through his fingers, and death led on. Or did he lead death in that fog shrouded, grim fandango through early untimed hours? Whether it was morning or night, it didn't matter. For he saw eternity beckon with such pleasures through those ebony hollows.

And he smiled.

                                                              1.

Jonah awoke with a start. His bed soaked and sticking to his naked flesh, cotton sheets once white, now bearing the soaks and stains of love mislaid. He turned to his left. A naked blonde woman lay there, knee deep in the land of nod. He slowed his ragged breathing so as not to wake her, and she took no notice of his sudden change of state.

He glanced around; the air was still, the night was warm and the beers lay half drank around the mattress he lay on. 'What time was it?' he asked and midnight gave no response, not even through starlight nor cricket song. Nor was the world alive at this forgotten moment. He turned to look at the mystery blonde; where did he meet her? Did he know her name?
All he knew was this; her arms bore the roadmap scrawling's of an addict; she was naked. And she was blonde.

Was she breathing?

Panic gripped him. And held him tight for a moment. Was she breathing?

Tentatively he looked at her, bathed in the weak and pale moonlight that streamed unstoppable through his slightly open blinds, as it did to countless other windows in this corner of the world, wherever he was. Eyes scanned her landscape of curves as he noted the tangled mass of hair behind her head and the way the white cotton sheet read ivory over where she lay, coloured by her nude body laying beneath.

He took a breath. A slow, meaningful breath as if all his futures, his pasts and his currently (and potentially) fucked present relied on. It calmed his nerves. Barely. But it calmed them enough for now as he reached over through the sliced moonlight to hold his hand near her mouth or nose, feeling for life.

Nothing.

Nothing.

PANIC

Nothing.

PANIC

Nothing.

There were no words to explain what he might be thinking at this point, but if you wanted an idea, the words 'fuck', 'shit' and 'oh' combined in any different manner would give you some indication. She was dead. And not long dead either.

Jonah's eyes winced, and suddenly the cool summer breeze flitted through the semi opened blinds, caressing his chest. It gave him a shock that spread throughout his body.

What had happened the night before? Why cant he remember it? Why can he only think of his dream? The same dream that came with a sinking sensation of having been dreamt before in some other time, some other life he could not (would not) remember.
It was always the same; he stood on a long pale beach, drenched in moonlight, the waves lapping at his feet, but he was not himself, of THAT Jonah was certain, he was never himself in these dreams and suddenly he held the hand of Death as they danced through the night.
He was never sure if it was a waltz or a tango or fandango they danced.
That was what troubled him the most.

Who was she?  He found himself asking, who was she?

He sighed for a moment and reached over for an unopened beer; the cotton sheet sliding over his naked body and off hers as he moved. With a loud and satisfying release of carbon it opened. The sound barely surprised him in his numb state. He already knew what the coroners report would say;

Cause of Death : Heart failure.
Time of Death : 12:01 am
Previous known medical conditions : Unknown.

The beer was cool and satisfying down his parched and cracked throat. Now worn down from his utter fear. It never got easier. Especially when the dreams came.
It never got easier.
He'd have to leave this town, he'd have to do it soon and without delay when the time came. "Tomorrow," he heard himself say, "tomorrow I will leave."

He sipped his beer and stared off into the darkness, at a framed clichéd motel print hanging off the wall. The picture was some confusing piece of modern 'art', if you could call it that.

Jonah stared through this. He stared through it into his reflection; at the curly hair collecting at his browline, at his strong and savage looking mouth like a dark gash in the canvas, at the white light enlightening the side of his face and enhancing his curved Jew nose. But more than this, he stared into his eyes.

And for a second there; he thought he could see Deaths comforting hollows staring back at him. Back into his eyes, back into him.

And he was not afraid.

No, he was not afraid.

He knew this would happen again, and again, and again. He knew that any woman he loved, in a sense that was not a pure love, would die the moment he pierced her wet openness with his dart.

He will waltz with death till his dying day on those long Arcadian shores, with the moon grinning ever on. And critics will be want to say that he ate the heart of whores, for his had been eaten long ago and in its place a lump of driftwood lay. A Swiss cheese reminder of passions touch and deaths countenance in place of his.

But no, he was not afraid.

Oh no, he was not afraid...

                                                              2.

…he was terrified.

Somewhere deep in his head Jonah was sucked down into the abyss of fear. A familiar creeping sensation worked its way up his neck as he gunned the loud engine of his off white car down the lonely stretch of highway which arced northerly across the land; scythe-like.
"They found her body." That's what the creeping touch told him. "They found her and they'll get you. There's not a thing you can do about it buck-o. You're fucked."

He had to get out of that hotel as fast as he could, get away from the things that he did; knowingly or unknowingly.

Sweat built up on his forehead like drops of dew in the morning air.

"Fucked boy. Fucked."

In the rearview mirror he could see a growing light behind him, just over the hill he just drove over.

"You see; they sent the pigs after you. They're gonna catch you and arrest you for murder."

Knuckles turned the colour of bone on the steering wheel as he gripped it with all his fear. For a moment he thought the wheel wheezed under his touch and let that imaginary balloon float upward through his mind for as long as he could hold onto its string. And lo! did he hold onto that string!

Glancing again at that horizontal panel of terror, Jonah realized the lights were gaining speed.

Snip!

Now his heart rate was racing like a broken stopwatch injected with speed as his balloon of distracting thoughts disappeared into the ether.

"Take another look behind you. It's the last thing you'll see before iron bars and shitty food for the rest of your life."

The descending headlights seemed to seep in to fill the car for a moment, Jonah's hands, still gripping the wheel in utter fear, slipping, perspiring angled the car along the road, carefully following it.
A vision of yellow marked with the speed flashed by, he glanced down to make sure he was following it, and verily; he was. The car was now filled by white glaring light, in the time he glanced at the speedometer, the car had gained on him.

All he could hear in his head was "Yo-uuuuuu aaaaaa-re fffffffuuuuuuuuuuucked." In a sing song voice and all he could feel were the years of fear and paranoia and guilt swooping down upon him with the ebony wings of a fallen angel, there to bundle him up and end his lifeline with a swish of a rusty scythe.

The time was upon him. The moment was now. Jonah could see the blue and red lights of a squad car filling the gaps the overbearing whiteness didn't, could feel the iron Bastille bars of prison touching his fingertips with icy detachment, could sense the understanding looks he'd get walking down Death Row by the rest of the condemned, couldn't believe his fucking eyes when the lights changed into the next lane and passed him by, revealed only by his headlights bouncing off the road and his glancing eyes, that it was in fact, an 18 wheeler that passed him, an 18 wheeler carrying a cargo of chicken.

No cop car.

No imprisonment.

No way he could believe his eyes and stupidity.

For a moment he sat back, relaxed, the cold sweat had soaked through his clothes and felt like the chill hug of Death himself in all his skeletal glory. Jonah leant back in his seat, shirt soaked, mind afloat on a wave of happiness and giddy stupidity.

He sighed, contentedly for a moment as a sign leading to the next town flashed him by; 12 miles.
A smile crossed his lips and he turned the radio up slightly; a twangy guitar opened up a miscellaneous country song that he didn't know or care to know.

"Well that was fun."

The voice was soft and soothing and came from the seat next to him. Caution and fear plastered itself over his face, when that dried uncertainty decided to give it a thick coat of paint.

Jonah turned his head to the direction of the voice, and his gaze slowly crawled across the brightly polished browline, down the jagged cheekbones, past the row of perfect teeth, glistening ivory in the nights moonlight touch…and shot back up to the seemingly bottomless depths of the two empty eye sockets that looked back at him with a sense of calm.

A soft touch reached over and held his hand, he could feel the bones sliding between his fingers with a familiar grace. With a moment of bravery that felt like it took forever to muster he glanced down and saw that the flesh and skin and anything living had never covered the polished tendrils of this right hand.

"So, where are we going?"

Jonah couldn't reply. He was too busy trying to work out what the fuck just happened; what the fuck was sitting next to him. Too focused on getting to the next place.

To some semblance of sanity.

Or rather…to something that resembled some semblance of sanity…

                                                              3.

The city was touched by the mornings breaking light as the car sailed across the tarmac river.
Golden peach rays flitted down as angels to embrace the tips of tall buildings, shining their happiness over any stretch of street and pavement open to them and elongating the grotesque shadows that seemed to cut through their form as sharp as razorblades.

Jonah had no idea where he was, or how he got here. His hands seemingly turned the car this way and that as his passenger sat back and took in the vast desert landscape, which at this point in time, seemed almost alien and certainly surreal.

Believing that everything was a hallucination (or, rather trying to convince himself that he had most likely gone insane or that the Government had slipped something in the water) he turned up the radio to try and drown out the hideous apparition sitting low and comfortable in the passenger seat. This tactic had worked for a while, until she (he…it?) reached over and turned the knob up, exclaiming "I love this song!" in an excited, velvety soprano.

Jonah simply gripped the wheel tighter.

It's LSD, they've put something in the water and I'm seeing Death next to me. That's all it is. I'll buy some water when we stop, and this will be all over in a few hours. Yeah that's it. Oh look, Death has lit up a cigarette…and the smoke is curling out of its skull…

The car rounded the corner almost too sharply and bounced off the curb, luckily for him it appeared as if this city was almost deserted. The only signs of life he noticed came from  the occasional bright neon sign boastfully proclaiming BAR or GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS! With any luck there might be someone inside these places! Certainly if the lights were on. But he simply drove past, aimlessly.

The hopeful dawn light in which he was driving was at once cut off by a monumental shadow which engulfed the speeding vehicle, this shadow, it seemed, was the ethereal arm of a granite building, it's tip so high it seemed to pierce the sky through the abdomen of a cloud. A set of stairs led up to the front door, embellished with a pair of hand carved art deco gargoyles that held a hand carved sign between their hand carved paws. The sign read 'Bureau of Tourism and Greeting.'

It wasn't the size of the building, or the fact that he had never anticipated finding a city of this magnitude in the middle of nowhere that bothered Jonah, what bothered him the most was the little man he must not have noticed, standing on the steps in a bright red jacket and fez beckoning them to pull over.

As Jonah slowed the car down and opened the window the little man cordially lent in and asked in a rather excited voice 'Hello, may I park your car for you? We've been expecting you here!' the consideration of everything that had just happened went through Jonah's mind very carefully. After realizing the situation was no more insane than what had happened in the last few days ( 1, Waking up next to a dead girl, check. 2, Hearing voices, check. 3 Having somehow managed to pick up Death as a hitchhiker and not realizing or remembering it…Check that too ) he decided to stop the car and get out.

The valet slipped into the seat and closed the door.

"Just up through those doors. I'll see you in about an hour. Or so."

Pushing his hand through the window he handed Jonah a ticket and drove off to behind the building. The ticket was green paper and had the number D64 printed in large bold black lettering on one side, this relic of strangeness was promptly thrust into his pocket. Then Jonah realized something. Where had she gone? She wasn't in the car with the valet, otherwise, he reasoned, the valet would most likely have been scared out of his wits.

"Up here."

The voice came from behind him, and Jonah turned to see from whence it came, sure enough; standing on top of the stairs, holding the door open by its large bronze handle was she.

Reluctantly he climbed the stairs.

                                                              4.

The beauty of the interior hit him like a ton of bricks, square in the chest and leaving him speechless for a pregnant moment. The floor was polished wood, so shiny he could see the rest of the room around him simply by looking down. The ceiling was domed in the Gothic style and higher than he could have imagined it to be from the outside, a fresco was painted with artful brushstrokes showing Adam being cast from the Garden of Eden, though the colours were so that the reflection upon the floor distorted it in a manner that seemed to remind him of growing storm clouds. Directly in front of him was a large desk, behind which a particularly lazy looking overweight man was sitting slumped, reading a newspaper without care or interest in the rest of the goings on of his kingdom.

Jonah walked up to the desk, the light footfalls of death behind him creating a crackling sound on the floor.

"Excuse me?" He asked the receptionist.

With a half arsed glance up the man raised his eyes.

"Where are we exactly?"

"Right here." The receptionist pointed down to a small brass sign attached to the large desk:

Bureau of Tourism and Greetings – Lost Haven.

Description
He waltzed with mystery in the midnight hour, hand in hand with darkness and mystery.
Dipping his hand in the cool velvet fog of the North Sea, entering dry and warm; escaping wet and finding only pearls in those sight evading depths.

And how he danced! With graceful arabesques and dragonfly wings bearing him through the air! How he waltzed with the hand of death in his, holding his hand surprisingly lightly; like a teenage girl, those bones felt so soft and smooth and right against his palm and looped through his fingers, and death led on. Or did he lead death in that fog shrouded, grim fandango through early untimed hours? Whether it was morning or night, it didn't matter. For he saw eternity beckon with such pleasures through those ebony hollows.

And he smiled.

                                                              1.

Jonah awoke with a start. His bed soaked and sticking to his naked flesh, cotton sheets once white, now bearing the soaks and stains of love mislaid. He turned to his left. A naked blonde woman lay there, knee deep in the land of nod. He slowed his ragged breathing so as not to wake her, and she took no notice of his sudden change of state.

He glanced around; the air was still, the night was warm and the beers lay half drank around the mattress he lay on. 'What time was it?' he asked and midnight gave no response, not even through starlight nor cricket song. Nor was the world alive at this forgotten moment. He turned to look at the mystery blonde; where did he meet her? Did he know her name?
All he knew was this; her arms bore the roadmap scrawling's of an addict; she was naked. And she was blonde.

Was she breathing?

Panic gripped him. And held him tight for a moment. Was she breathing?

Tentatively he looked at her, bathed in the weak and pale moonlight that streamed unstoppable through his slightly open blinds, as it did to countless other windows in this corner of the world, wherever he was. Eyes scanned her landscape of curves as he noted the tangled mass of hair behind her head and the way the white cotton sheet read ivory over where she lay, coloured by her nude body laying beneath.

He took a breath. A slow, meaningful breath as if all his futures, his pasts and his currently (and potentially) fucked present relied on. It calmed his nerves. Barely. But it calmed them enough for now as he reached over through the sliced moonlight to hold his hand near her mouth or nose, feeling for life.

Nothing.

Nothing.

PANIC

Nothing.

PANIC

Nothing.

There were no words to explain what he might be thinking at this point, but if you wanted an idea, the words 'fuck', 'shit' and 'oh' combined in any different manner would give you some indication. She was dead. And not long dead either.

Jonah's eyes winced, and suddenly the cool summer breeze flitted through the semi opened blinds, caressing his chest. It gave him a shock that spread throughout his body.

What had happened the night before? Why cant he remember it? Why can he only think of his dream? The same dream that came with a sinking sensation of having been dreamt before in some other time, some other life he could not (would not) remember.
It was always the same; he stood on a long pale beach, drenched in moonlight, the waves lapping at his feet, but he was not himself, of THAT Jonah was certain, he was never himself in these dreams and suddenly he held the hand of Death as they danced through the night.
He was never sure if it was a waltz or a tango or fandango they danced.
That was what troubled him the most.

Who was she?  He found himself asking, who was she?

He sighed for a moment and reached over for an unopened beer; the cotton sheet sliding over his naked body and off hers as he moved. With a loud and satisfying release of carbon it opened. The sound barely surprised him in his numb state. He already knew what the coroners report would say;

Cause of Death : Heart failure.
Time of Death : 12:01 am
Previous known medical conditions : Unknown.

The beer was cool and satisfying down his parched and cracked throat. Now worn down from his utter fear. It never got easier. Especially when the dreams came.
It never got easier.
He'd have to leave this town, he'd have to do it soon and without delay when the time came. "Tomorrow," he heard himself say, "tomorrow I will leave."

He sipped his beer and stared off into the darkness, at a framed clichéd motel print hanging off the wall. The picture was some confusing piece of modern 'art', if you could call it that.

Jonah stared through this. He stared through it into his reflection; at the curly hair collecting at his browline, at his strong and savage looking mouth like a dark gash in the canvas, at the white light enlightening the side of his face and enhancing his curved Jew nose. But more than this, he stared into his eyes.

And for a second there; he thought he could see Deaths comforting hollows staring back at him. Back into his eyes, back into him.

And he was not afraid.

No, he was not afraid.

He knew this would happen again, and again, and again. He knew that any woman he loved, in a sense that was not a pure love, would die the moment he pierced her wet openness with his dart.

He will waltz with death till his dying day on those long Arcadian shores, with the moon grinning ever on. And critics will be want to say that he ate the heart of whores, for his had been eaten long ago and in its place a lump of driftwood lay. A Swiss cheese reminder of passions touch and deaths countenance in place of his.

But no, he was not afraid.

Oh no, he was not afraid...

                                                              2.

…he was terrified.

Somewhere deep in his head Jonah was sucked down into the abyss of fear. A familiar creeping sensation worked its way up his neck as he gunned the loud engine of his off white car down the lonely stretch of highway which arced northerly across the land; scythe-like.
"They found her body." That's what the creeping touch told him. "They found her and they'll get you. There's not a thing you can do about it buck-o. You're fucked."

He had to get out of that hotel as fast as he could, get away from the things that he did; knowingly or unknowingly.

Sweat built up on his forehead like drops of dew in the morning air.

"Fucked boy. Fucked."

In the rearview mirror he could see a growing light behind him, just over the hill he just drove over.

"You see; they sent the pigs after you. They're gonna catch you and arrest you for murder."

Knuckles turned the colour of bone on the steering wheel as he gripped it with all his fear. For a moment he thought the wheel wheezed under his touch and let that imaginary balloon float upward through his mind for as long as he could hold onto its string. And lo! did he hold onto that string!

Glancing again at that horizontal panel of terror, Jonah realized the lights were gaining speed.

Snip!

Now his heart rate was racing like a broken stopwatch injected with speed as his balloon of distracting thoughts disappeared into the ether.

"Take another look behind you. It's the last thing you'll see before iron bars and shitty food for the rest of your life."

The descending headlights seemed to seep in to fill the car for a moment, Jonah's hands, still gripping the wheel in utter fear, slipping, perspiring angled the car along the road, carefully following it.
A vision of yellow marked with the speed flashed by, he glanced down to make sure he was following it, and verily; he was. The car was now filled by white glaring light, in the time he glanced at the speedometer, the car had gained on him.

All he could hear in his head was "Yo-uuuuuu aaaaaa-re fffffffuuuuuuuuuuucked." In a sing song voice and all he could feel were the years of fear and paranoia and guilt swooping down upon him with the ebony wings of a fallen angel, there to bundle him up and end his lifeline with a swish of a rusty scythe.

The time was upon him. The moment was now. Jonah could see the blue and red lights of a squad car filling the gaps the overbearing whiteness didn't, could feel the iron Bastille bars of prison touching his fingertips with icy detachment, could sense the understanding looks he'd get walking down Death Row by the rest of the condemned, couldn't believe his fucking eyes when the lights changed into the next lane and passed him by, revealed only by his headlights bouncing off the road and his glancing eyes, that it was in fact, an 18 wheeler that passed him, an 18 wheeler carrying a cargo of chicken.

No cop car.

No imprisonment.

No way he could believe his eyes and stupidity.

For a moment he sat back, relaxed, the cold sweat had soaked through his clothes and felt like the chill hug of Death himself in all his skeletal glory. Jonah leant back in his seat, shirt soaked, mind afloat on a wave of happiness and giddy stupidity.

He sighed, contentedly for a moment as a sign leading to the next town flashed him by; 12 miles.
A smile crossed his lips and he turned the radio up slightly; a twangy guitar opened up a miscellaneous country song that he didn't know or care to know.

"Well that was fun."

The voice was soft and soothing and came from the seat next to him. Caution and fear plastered itself over his face, when that dried uncertainty decided to give it a thick coat of paint.

Jonah turned his head to the direction of the voice, and his gaze slowly crawled across the brightly polished browline, down the jagged cheekbones, past the row of perfect teeth, glistening ivory in the nights moonlight touch…and shot back up to the seemingly bottomless depths of the two empty eye sockets that looked back at him with a sense of calm.

A soft touch reached over and held his hand, he could feel the bones sliding between his fingers with a familiar grace. With a moment of bravery that felt like it took forever to muster he glanced down and saw that the flesh and skin and anything living had never covered the polished tendrils of this right hand.

"So, where are we going?"

Jonah couldn't reply. He was too busy trying to work out what the fuck just happened; what the fuck was sitting next to him. Too focused on getting to the next place.

To some semblance of sanity.

Or rather…to something that resembled some semblance of sanity…

                                                              3.

The city was touched by the mornings breaking light as the car sailed across the tarmac river.
Golden peach rays flitted down as angels to embrace the tips of tall buildings, shining their happiness over any stretch of street and pavement open to them and elongating the grotesque shadows that seemed to cut through their form as sharp as razorblades.

Jonah had no idea where he was, or how he got here. His hands seemingly turned the car this way and that as his passenger sat back and took in the vast desert landscape, which at this point in time, seemed almost alien and certainly surreal.

Believing that everything was a hallucination (or, rather trying to convince himself that he had most likely gone insane or that the Government had slipped something in the water) he turned up the radio to try and drown out the hideous apparition sitting low and comfortable in the passenger seat. This tactic had worked for a while, until she (he…it?) reached over and turned the knob up, exclaiming "I love this song!" in an excited, velvety soprano.

Jonah simply gripped the wheel tighter.

It's LSD, they've put something in the water and I'm seeing Death next to me. That's all it is. I'll buy some water when we stop, and this will be all over in a few hours. Yeah that's it. Oh look, Death has lit up a cigarette…and the smoke is curling out of its skull…

The car rounded the corner almost too sharply and bounced off the curb, luckily for him it appeared as if this city was almost deserted. The only signs of life he noticed came from  the occasional bright neon sign boastfully proclaiming BAR or GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS! With any luck there might be someone inside these places! Certainly if the lights were on. But he simply drove past, aimlessly.

The hopeful dawn light in which he was driving was at once cut off by a monumental shadow which engulfed the speeding vehicle, this shadow, it seemed, was the ethereal arm of a granite building, it's tip so high it seemed to pierce the sky through the abdomen of a cloud. A set of stairs led up to the front door, embellished with a pair of hand carved art deco gargoyles that held a hand carved sign between their hand carved paws. The sign read 'Bureau of Tourism and Greeting.'

It wasn't the size of the building, or the fact that he had never anticipated finding a city of this magnitude in the middle of nowhere that bothered Jonah, what bothered him the most was the little man he must not have noticed, standing on the steps in a bright red jacket and fez beckoning them to pull over.

As Jonah slowed the car down and opened the window the little man cordially lent in and asked in a rather excited voice 'Hello, may I park your car for you? We've been expecting you here!' the consideration of everything that had just happened went through Jonah's mind very carefully. After realizing the situation was no more insane than what had happened in the last few days ( 1, Waking up next to a dead girl, check. 2, Hearing voices, check. 3 Having somehow managed to pick up Death as a hitchhiker and not realizing or remembering it…Check that too ) he decided to stop the car and get out.

The valet slipped into the seat and closed the door.

"Just up through those doors. I'll see you in about an hour. Or so."

Pushing his hand through the window he handed Jonah a ticket and drove off to behind the building. The ticket was green paper and had the number D64 printed in large bold black lettering on one side, this relic of strangeness was promptly thrust into his pocket. Then Jonah realized something. Where had she gone? She wasn't in the car with the valet, otherwise, he reasoned, the valet would most likely have been scared out of his wits.

"Up here."

The voice came from behind him, and Jonah turned to see from whence it came, sure enough; standing on top of the stairs, holding the door open by its large bronze handle was she.

Reluctantly he climbed the stairs.

                                                              4.

The beauty of the interior hit him like a ton of bricks, square in the chest and leaving him speechless for a pregnant moment. The floor was polished wood, so shiny he could see the rest of the room around him simply by looking down. The ceiling was domed in the Gothic style and higher than he could have imagined it to be from the outside, a fresco was painted with artful brushstrokes showing Adam being cast from the Garden of Eden, though the colours were so that the reflection upon the floor distorted it in a manner that seemed to remind him of growing storm clouds. Directly in front of him was a large desk, behind which a particularly lazy looking overweight man was sitting slumped, reading a newspaper without care or interest in the rest of the goings on of his kingdom.

Jonah walked up to the desk, the light footfalls of death behind him creating a crackling sound on the floor.

"Excuse me?" He asked the receptionist.

With a half arsed glance up the man raised his eyes.

"Where are we exactly?"

"Right here." The receptionist pointed down to a small brass sign attached to the large desk:

Bureau of Tourism and Greetings – Lost Haven.