The nighttime melody plays over piano’s and cigarette smoke, whisping over conversations in a primative, off-world symphony, meant for those who listen through tall glasses and watch the scene with jaded eyes.
    The land of sinners, the unnatural and bizarre makes it almost impossible to tell who might be conscious and who is merely pretending to be awake through this life time.This nightmare world of jazz and jewelry draped around wrinkled necks and galaxy-painted eyelids, made for a world of quasi-dead.
    This is the downtown scene, the place people go for the rather unusual party, where you can tell nothing about anyone but everything about where they’re sitting, how they’re sitting, what shoes they’re wearing, and how they’re wearing them. You can dilly dally on perceptions of the way these creatures of the lower-downtown underworld survive and mingle, or you can diagnose them with the typical (and atypical) syndromes of the times.
    You can find the pedophile, the rapist, the druggie, the attorney, the accountant, the fool, the braggart, the drunk, simply by waiting in a shady corner, in the darkest part of this open theatre of characters, all performing their final number for life.
    To be an observer on this field of warfare where guns are not fired, and straws not drawn, until the minds have mingled and maimed one another through the cylindrical puffs of an ancient cigar, through the gentle twirl of an olive-clad stir stick in a dry martini. To be such a critic of this land of actors and actresses, an audience to the poor lit scenes and worse-written scripts, is to put yourself on the fine line and far branches of fate.
    For at any moment, a sip of that gin, a puff of that cigarette, or a slip of the tongue can catapult you into this unknown, into the dank and dismal eternity of hopelessness. It can make you a part of the misery these cronies feel in the morning, the blues they feel in the afternoon, and the strange drug-induced coma’s of their nights.
    This is your warning. Don’t tread on the dreams of devils, nor the sinners whom they whisper too. For they will take your head and soul in the slip of a word in your ear soliciting you to do unspeakable things for unreasonable prices. It is in the dark refuse of this subterranean portrait that you might lose yourself to; the tell tale beatings of the dead worlds heart, buried and hidden under the floor boards behind the bar stools and hallucinogens.
    But should you choose to venture into this forgotten/forsaken limbo of lithium powered zombies, forever gabbing in jarbled languages of cellphone static and wrist-watch glances, should you choose to gamble away your sanity in neon colored liquors that paint the brain a strange shade of magenta and teal, that is your business. But don’t sit next to me, or in front of me, I have a great view from this thing; this lamp-lit, razor wire fence line.

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