My feet buried, plantlike in deep brown cold earth. Extracting my bipedal limbs one then two, I blink myself to full awakening. Last night I fell asleep in a miasmic swoon upon the stone cobbles of a London back alley. I wake surrounded by the verdant abundance of beast-sculpted hedges and rainbow flowers. I shake the clinging ground from my boots, the dirt encasing my legs still trying to claim me back for Gaia. The unsmoked air refreshes, replenishing with every breath. A cleansing esuna drop in the black ocean London has deposited within me. The sun, freed here from the city’s cloying grip does not warm me though. I stand in a palatial shadow. The plants turn accusing gaze upon me as I creep unsolicited towards a powder white wall. I whisper platitudes as I pass, telling them I plan no harm, assuring innocent motives. They remain silent, complicit. A window, bordered in black beckons me with transparent welcoming. Pressing up against its chill, my breath becomes crystalline, the fog of London briefly appearing, tarnishing the glass’ perfection. The cloud clears, revealing invisible separation of my world outside from the austenesque interior. A woman enters stage left. She is Lady Marie Ashley. I have no way of knowing, and yet I am sure. Her note twitches in my pocket, sensing the proximity of its mistresses hand. I see her glide past, the curls of her hair flicks of dark calligraphy, the shine of her dress crisp goldenrod. She nears exit, a crescendo of voices builds in my chest, my feet once again rooted firm to the ground unmoveable. As she disappears once again from perceptive existence my cry bursts forth as no more than a vaporous silence.


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