Moonlight dancing girl.

Behind that door lied the gate that leaded to the front basement. The death body was dancing at the glare of moonlight and at the mercy of the wind; soulless, in front of the window. Around it things looked even more lugubrious and empty than when the house was inhabited, and that's a lot to say about them all... all forgotten and all gone.


Outside, Billy the kid kept kicking the ball against the wall, close enough to the window of the basement. He knew that bricks and metal last centuries and the house was still intact though fairly old. Moonlight had always fascinated him in a disciplined yet vicious manner, enough to make him flee from home every night and run through the woods, following the moon until he used to find the house in the clear almost by instinct, just like that.

The music in the basement resembled the sound of the wind yet billy could barely guessed that for years. Although it was real music coming from there, every night, the same song: "the whistle that whistles" as the little kid liked to call it, inferring it was "a strange wind" this one that came from the other side of the forest.

No long after Billy went to recover the ball from the basement one night did he realized the mystic nature of this world.

from somewhere in the Baltic ocean

There's an opium den I often fancy visiting and seldom do. I regret the fact that this secluded artifact of dreams isn't available to me as much as I would like to due to his distance and my busy schedule. The noise all the peasants and servants make during the laboring hours stops me from defining the thoughts and the nights are frivolous to those that, like me, prefer the depth of the universe to the shining of the stars. My fellow men live imprisoned in two worlds while few of us can live in three, four, and for the costly expense of the greenish substance, the wealthiest, like me, can afford many more.

Baudelaire talked and lived for the vice. De Quincey wrote a treatise on his life as a consumer. Wilde set upon Dorian the curse of beauty and showed him an exit to his pain through it. Many a man dived in its waters and many others succumbed in its love, but for you, reader, I will only suggest the view of a thousand storms inside a Christmas ball and just affirm that every hell has delivered its treasure and every need its detachment. For no forgiveness has been granted or even existed and no sin has ever been forgotten as the Creator places his gift upon us all and says "live as your desire dictates!" and another thousand worlds are triggered for the rest of mankind.

In this deliriant state such as yours, such as mine, can we tell who's dreaming who, who lives and who dies and certainly: What is the "righteous" path of the "just" and where does it leads us to?

Yours from somewhere in the Baltic ocean
Lord Harry.