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There is no video tonight. I do not know why. Perhaps the disembodied spirit orchestrating this couldn't find any? I have such a hard time deciphering disembodied spirits anyway. Let the dead take care of the dead and the living care for the living. I am an elferino. Tell me, where do I belong?
Tonight we wander the financial district... the mid-town thoroughfares housing great banks and brokerage houses. Philadelphia has a stock exchange, you know. And it's quite a respectable institution. Indeed, when Gotham was laid low during the Twin Towers catastrophe, trading resumed the very next day down our way.
But the arteries of commerce run slow in the dark. People go elsewhere... to Rittenhouse Square, or Fitler Square, or Society Hill, or Old City... to the condominiums and cooperatives of style and grace. Yet the streets are not empty. Isolated smidgens of consciousness make their way through the shadows.... Drug dealers looking for quiet, though convenient corners to hawk their wares.... Temperamental, bashful doxies seeking to fill the emptiness and earn a centime or two.... semi-runaways searching for imagined independence.... They sit on benches passing bottles... Cups are not necessary. Alcohol kills the germs.
We see them. We nod. They respond. We sit down and talk, mostly in whispers. Nighttime quiets things. Perhaps a behavior learned in prehistoric times. No telling who else (or what else) might be listening.
Do they know what we are? Who cares? There is brotherhood in darkness. We taste the grog and smoke the crack, sharing our wealth liberally... an emerald here... a Krugerrand there.... could be a greasy wallet fat with bills..... Night-folk pick up many things. Victims are so rich.
I dance for them. Elferinos are good dancers. And they tell me how much they appreciate the show. The whores dance too. Drug dealers don't. They just do not.
Police cars cruise the streets like silent barracudas. We freeze, blending with the shadows til they pass. Hungry souls trolling for narcotics or sex, or both, or whatever approach, standing in the distance and looking... always looking. But our friends know the signals. Each side knows the moves. And in that way trades are made.
I tell them stories of Old Amsterdam... of vampire brothels in Vienna and elfin pick-pockets in Glasgow alleys. They like the stories... and my accent... not quite French... not quite German... I teach them Vahmperigo... My Vahmperigo... the night-folk tongue... Not like what Jonathon speaks... His is based on Spanish... Mine is a northern dialect, more akin to Flemish.
Before dawn I buy them pancakes. Sometimes I drink the syrup. I can tolerate small amounts. Alcohol is a syrup... a fermented syrup. Perhaps that's why.
Then I fly off to sleep away the fiery day in thick walled tombs. God bless Laurel Hill ( a vast necropolis for wealthy bones).....
Shhhh, it's time for pancakes
The waitress sees my pointy ears. But she has Mayan plugs in hers. I think she's not impressed.
Look, I know the vampiric world 'round here is dull, what with Jonathon and Sarah running off and all. But something will happen.
It always does.... Johnny Jump Up still walks....
Oh, God, why did I say that name?...
(until next time)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
link to more ~~~> 700,000 WORD UNIVERSE ... leave a comment here or on @wilkravitz ... that's Twitter. good night.
Tonight we wander the financial district... the mid-town thoroughfares housing great banks and brokerage houses. Philadelphia has a stock exchange, you know. And it's quite a respectable institution. Indeed, when Gotham was laid low during the Twin Towers catastrophe, trading resumed the very next day down our way.
But the arteries of commerce run slow in the dark. People go elsewhere... to Rittenhouse Square, or Fitler Square, or Society Hill, or Old City... to the condominiums and cooperatives of style and grace. Yet the streets are not empty. Isolated smidgens of consciousness make their way through the shadows.... Drug dealers looking for quiet, though convenient corners to hawk their wares.... Temperamental, bashful doxies seeking to fill the emptiness and earn a centime or two.... semi-runaways searching for imagined independence.... They sit on benches passing bottles... Cups are not necessary. Alcohol kills the germs.
We see them. We nod. They respond. We sit down and talk, mostly in whispers. Nighttime quiets things. Perhaps a behavior learned in prehistoric times. No telling who else (or what else) might be listening.
Do they know what we are? Who cares? There is brotherhood in darkness. We taste the grog and smoke the crack, sharing our wealth liberally... an emerald here... a Krugerrand there.... could be a greasy wallet fat with bills..... Night-folk pick up many things. Victims are so rich.
I dance for them. Elferinos are good dancers. And they tell me how much they appreciate the show. The whores dance too. Drug dealers don't. They just do not.
Police cars cruise the streets like silent barracudas. We freeze, blending with the shadows til they pass. Hungry souls trolling for narcotics or sex, or both, or whatever approach, standing in the distance and looking... always looking. But our friends know the signals. Each side knows the moves. And in that way trades are made.
I tell them stories of Old Amsterdam... of vampire brothels in Vienna and elfin pick-pockets in Glasgow alleys. They like the stories... and my accent... not quite French... not quite German... I teach them Vahmperigo... My Vahmperigo... the night-folk tongue... Not like what Jonathon speaks... His is based on Spanish... Mine is a northern dialect, more akin to Flemish.
Before dawn I buy them pancakes. Sometimes I drink the syrup. I can tolerate small amounts. Alcohol is a syrup... a fermented syrup. Perhaps that's why.
Then I fly off to sleep away the fiery day in thick walled tombs. God bless Laurel Hill ( a vast necropolis for wealthy bones).....
Shhhh, it's time for pancakes
The waitress sees my pointy ears. But she has Mayan plugs in hers. I think she's not impressed.
Look, I know the vampiric world 'round here is dull, what with Jonathon and Sarah running off and all. But something will happen.
It always does.... Johnny Jump Up still walks....
Oh, God, why did I say that name?...
(until next time)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
link to more ~~~> 700,000 WORD UNIVERSE ... leave a comment here or on @wilkravitz ... that's Twitter. good night.
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