Would you believe me if i told you that tomatoes are really bits of red paper, and fluffy goo? Made in the most mysterious manner in the depths of the night, to resemble living hearts. Hearts full of blood.
Or would you believe that the stars are really recycled glitter, and the planets are made of dust? And the deep velvet sky is really just that? Deep velvet. My ancestors would spin it out into fine strands of liquorice and pincushions, secret boxes and blankets that made one invisible in the windows at night, or in the shadows of the City. those twisted alleys those hidden places, you could walk unseen unheard. Don’t believe me? Then why is it that you cant see me, even though i’m standing right beside you?
Footsteps skittering, something walking, slithering scrambling, whispering. Blithering, wuthering, muttering, bumbling. There is something in the air. Something in the faint smell of burning, in the sad bent of the night walkers head. In the strange wild men of old, who walk as one of us on the outside.
Prickles run up my arms as i cross this strange world in my night cloak. Old crinkled fingers, mangy dark matted hair, twisted mouth, long bent nose. Bushy brows. And a sudden charming smile. That just lights up the world.