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Description
Here, my dear, not far from the coast of the Atlantic and ironically positioned between the play of two rivers, lay the remains of the now lost town of Great Rift. Once a thriving cog in the passionate dreams of American manufacture, now so weedy and spendthrift; so bitten by furious rains and destruction, by fires so vast that God himself would have burned, sadly it is no more than a place to dally with perfumed handkerchief raised delicately to one's nose. The sea adds a fulsome tang to the remains of desiccated flesh, I’m afraid. A comely soup but difficult on the stomach. I do hope you haven’t eaten. Here. We will move deeper into this barbaric and intriguing show. Are you feeling quite well? You look a bit peaked.

Observe if you will, by my foot, this delicate, effervescent mold which lingers pale, on sodden wood. Those small mouths of corruption! They will survive us all. And look how the rains, insubstantial enough in smaller doses, fell so hard and in such number upon the windows that those ramshackle frames now yawn most unhelpfully . . . a lesson, perhaps, in man’s false belief in his own protections and proving once again it is impossible to keep terror in, or indeed, bar it from entry. As I always say, ‘Do not lust for providence or it will lust for you!’ My lusts seem to turn in your direction, my dear, as you’ve lately grown so ripe, so luscious, so possessed and in control. Compared to your most unfortunate and distasteful birth, of course. You were such a whiny thing when your father, the formidable Judge of Great Rift, thought best to wrest you from that harlot mother of yours, and place you in my fulsome care. How bitter you were! How nasty! How foul and contrary. And look what a prize you've become. Now you are an apple firm, bursting at the seams. We shall see, won’t we, how far the apple falls from the tree. Come. Let us move from a flood of Godly proportions to the Devil’s own netherworld. From corpulent, watery excess, to things crisped as toast. It is marvellous, no?

Feel it, my child? How shades challenge us at every step? One can hear the wracking screams behind crumbling walls – sense the horrible, hopeless flights - the inevitable, disastrous falls - the cracked grins of things most dead. A tragedy, indeed! May I take your fingers, dear? How warm they are; so hot with sensual heat your very breast blushes. Why, your blood beats to the very nail beds! Please. Calm yourself. Let us leave this watery grave and move outside to continue our tour. Do watch those delicate boots – there are nails everywhere. An injury would be most devastating. I would not have you disfigured on my arm.

Note the transformation from dousing rains to hell’s fires? Two furies battled - both succeeding in their spheres - both in the end fueled on human gore and last gasps. Have they not dined well? No bitter flesh remains to coat those bleak bones, no. And how corruption grows! Note how this once providential home stands – one side alive and blooming with green lichen most foul - while the other side languishes, deplete and useless, dead and quite barren. It is proof of the Devil’s contrary and inexact hunger. It is as if God brought one cataclysm to bear; and unsatisfied, invited his other, brighter self to dine. I suppose there is a lesson in there somewhere. I am afraid I am not enough of a wit to . . . well never matter. Let us step nearer to perdition - to the passionate embrace of the flame.

The solar beast greets us merrily, no? Watch the sun slide down the fallen chimneys, is it not delightful? How God loves his disasters! Well, why not? He must have play, too. My goodness, it is getting late - It is too dark to walk the woods to the coach, I’m afraid. We must stay the night for our safety. But not to worry, all will be in comfort. I have assumed a room with bed, deep within hell’s embrace, and have had the good fortune to stock provisions for just this sort of occasion. I would not be much of a guardian without a bolt hole of sorts, now would I? I planned on your dogged curiosity. Your lust for revenge and varied experience. I made my way through these burned effigies and discovered a most pristine parlor, untouched by the conflagration. But let us pause for a moment in our wanderings. Look there! Your father’s courthouse still stands, rearing its ugly, pillared head, all stone and empty pride. Much as your father did, I might say. Fitting he perished in there, ney? A testimonial to his obvious but barely useful strength. And aren’t we the fortunate ones? To bare the brunt of his greedily filled coffers – you, his only remaining relation - and me, your legal guardian!

Ah, but God will have his jest! Look to the roof of his citadel. See? A row of tiny beech trees soaring to the heavens? One might say sprouting obscenely from father Justice’s tarred and shingled brow. Imagine! Tender branches pressing the sky, while roots inveigle to split everlasting stone. The Theosophists say . . . “As above, so below,” and as we are indeed low, perhaps my musings will penetrate another stone, my dear, your high and mighty heart. I will split open that bitter organ of yours, my girl, in time. My fires must be fed, too. Oh, I simply jest – a gentle play on words. Imagine, me splitting you open. What could that possibly mean? Would I pry you to pieces with my little pocketknife? With a quick thrust, here and here? No, too small, I’m afraid. I am most harmless. One could improvise; I suppose . . . there are many things that can cut – like that window glass back there shattered into jagged swords. Your bloody excess would lend some needed and vibrant color to this piece of work, wouldn’t you think? Add a finishing touch, ha ha? Forgive me, as I say, I jest. No, no. Do not run that way dear, you will only injure yourself. Look! You’ve lost a heel already! Let us hope, ha ha, that is all you lose. Ah, you are uncomfortable and now the black night falls. Well. We shall seek our ease in my most delightful parlor. What? You back away. Surely you are not afraid? Come. It’s not far . . . I have some small entertainments planned.

Description
Here, my dear, not far from the coast of the Atlantic and ironically positioned between the play of two rivers, lay the remains of the now lost town of Great Rift. Once a thriving cog in the passionate dreams of American manufacture, now so weedy and spendthrift; so bitten by furious rains and destruction, by fires so vast that God himself would have burned, sadly it is no more than a place to dally with perfumed handkerchief raised delicately to one's nose. The sea adds a fulsome tang to the remains of desiccated flesh, I’m afraid. A comely soup but difficult on the stomach. I do hope you haven’t eaten. Here. We will move deeper into this barbaric and intriguing show. Are you feeling quite well? You look a bit peaked.

Observe if you will, by my foot, this delicate, effervescent mold which lingers pale, on sodden wood. Those small mouths of corruption! They will survive us all. And look how the rains, insubstantial enough in smaller doses, fell so hard and in such number upon the windows that those ramshackle frames now yawn most unhelpfully . . . a lesson, perhaps, in man’s false belief in his own protections and proving once again it is impossible to keep terror in, or indeed, bar it from entry. As I always say, ‘Do not lust for providence or it will lust for you!’ My lusts seem to turn in your direction, my dear, as you’ve lately grown so ripe, so luscious, so possessed and in control. Compared to your most unfortunate and distasteful birth, of course. You were such a whiny thing when your father, the formidable Judge of Great Rift, thought best to wrest you from that harlot mother of yours, and place you in my fulsome care. How bitter you were! How nasty! How foul and contrary. And look what a prize you've become. Now you are an apple firm, bursting at the seams. We shall see, won’t we, how far the apple falls from the tree. Come. Let us move from a flood of Godly proportions to the Devil’s own netherworld. From corpulent, watery excess, to things crisped as toast. It is marvellous, no?

Feel it, my child? How shades challenge us at every step? One can hear the wracking screams behind crumbling walls – sense the horrible, hopeless flights - the inevitable, disastrous falls - the cracked grins of things most dead. A tragedy, indeed! May I take your fingers, dear? How warm they are; so hot with sensual heat your very breast blushes. Why, your blood beats to the very nail beds! Please. Calm yourself. Let us leave this watery grave and move outside to continue our tour. Do watch those delicate boots – there are nails everywhere. An injury would be most devastating. I would not have you disfigured on my arm.

Note the transformation from dousing rains to hell’s fires? Two furies battled - both succeeding in their spheres - both in the end fueled on human gore and last gasps. Have they not dined well? No bitter flesh remains to coat those bleak bones, no. And how corruption grows! Note how this once providential home stands – one side alive and blooming with green lichen most foul - while the other side languishes, deplete and useless, dead and quite barren. It is proof of the Devil’s contrary and inexact hunger. It is as if God brought one cataclysm to bear; and unsatisfied, invited his other, brighter self to dine. I suppose there is a lesson in there somewhere. I am afraid I am not enough of a wit to . . . well never matter. Let us step nearer to perdition - to the passionate embrace of the flame.

The solar beast greets us merrily, no? Watch the sun slide down the fallen chimneys, is it not delightful? How God loves his disasters! Well, why not? He must have play, too. My goodness, it is getting late - It is too dark to walk the woods to the coach, I’m afraid. We must stay the night for our safety. But not to worry, all will be in comfort. I have assumed a room with bed, deep within hell’s embrace, and have had the good fortune to stock provisions for just this sort of occasion. I would not be much of a guardian without a bolt hole of sorts, now would I? I planned on your dogged curiosity. Your lust for revenge and varied experience. I made my way through these burned effigies and discovered a most pristine parlor, untouched by the conflagration. But let us pause for a moment in our wanderings. Look there! Your father’s courthouse still stands, rearing its ugly, pillared head, all stone and empty pride. Much as your father did, I might say. Fitting he perished in there, ney? A testimonial to his obvious but barely useful strength. And aren’t we the fortunate ones? To bare the brunt of his greedily filled coffers – you, his only remaining relation - and me, your legal guardian!

Ah, but God will have his jest! Look to the roof of his citadel. See? A row of tiny beech trees soaring to the heavens? One might say sprouting obscenely from father Justice’s tarred and shingled brow. Imagine! Tender branches pressing the sky, while roots inveigle to split everlasting stone. The Theosophists say . . . “As above, so below,” and as we are indeed low, perhaps my musings will penetrate another stone, my dear, your high and mighty heart. I will split open that bitter organ of yours, my girl, in time. My fires must be fed, too. Oh, I simply jest – a gentle play on words. Imagine, me splitting you open. What could that possibly mean? Would I pry you to pieces with my little pocketknife? With a quick thrust, here and here? No, too small, I’m afraid. I am most harmless. One could improvise; I suppose . . . there are many things that can cut – like that window glass back there shattered into jagged swords. Your bloody excess would lend some needed and vibrant color to this piece of work, wouldn’t you think? Add a finishing touch, ha ha? Forgive me, as I say, I jest. No, no. Do not run that way dear, you will only injure yourself. Look! You’ve lost a heel already! Let us hope, ha ha, that is all you lose. Ah, you are uncomfortable and now the black night falls. Well. We shall seek our ease in my most delightful parlor. What? You back away. Surely you are not afraid? Come. It’s not far . . . I have some small entertainments planned.