The wind and rain knocked on his window the winter had come to “the largest village in England” his home city of Escafold. In 1996, his Grandfather stated that “Modern Escafold, a flourishing former industrial city with over half a million inhabitants and a world-wide reputation, still retains many of the essential characteristics of the small market town of about five thousand people from which it has grown in the space of two and a half centuries.”.
“For a long time my window gave onto a cabaret painted half green and half bright red–a sweet torture for my eyes.”
–Charles Baudelaire (Salon of 1846)
In this village of this bleak northern town it mattered who people thought you was it walked before you and stood at the bar with a knowing snarl, not that he was any longer a associate of the village fools, the paranoia had eaten him up, the history was written all over his face each time he shaved it looked back at him there reminding him of his former nihilism, time he had looked at the neon lights that told him he was in the gutter outside The Bar Eat More Fruit.
The philosophy of nothingness was far removed from true nihilism any truth he was proclaiming was like the written word a lie, the prevarication had gone on for some years, in the concrete jungle the shadows of paranoia loomed in the dark walkways stood the dark thoughts, the city was dead as the plague dogs of humanity no doubt walked, as he sat reading in the light of the wax light the cold night played itself out, the open fire gave him warmth he was no longer a man of pleasure but one of a time stood still.
He walked his days in the other world, down in the valley Escafold no doubt moved in tune with the beat of capitalism, those who can remain civil in the face of fascism perhaps fail to understand the true nature of their opponent, he had seen the face of fascism looked into its eyes of deadness in The Bar Eat More Fruit they had stood mocking his anarchism in a slow tone, his anger was growing.