My old friend. How you cower there. And seethe. Your pit. You think you've escaped again? You're wrong. You cannot escape me. I will always find you.
And with shovel and spade in the dead of night. Overcoat draped o'er one of these pillars, even in this dismal bleak rain. The echoes off the sepulchral houses, with ruined cippi and hideous gargoyles, cannot be helped. With any luck, the caretaker has taken leave of himself with too much drink upon the morrow.
Did you miss me? Our yearly meeting? No small partaking. You and I. Old dear friend. Soon now.
Richard Charles Davidson over 4 years ago
#1 of a short trilogy.