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the winding alley reminded me of river styx. it's dark, it’s shady, and it’s veiled with a thick mist of suspicion and an ominous air of uncertainty.
those homeless guys that float randomly in the dark are the ferry boat operators, the “charons” of the alley; expect them to ask you for coins. you know, for passage.
i won’t say they’re amiable, but they are usually easy if you give them what they want.
tonight, a lady dared to enter the alley but was stopped on her tracks. despite her offers of coins and bills, the charons of the alley denied her entry.
no, i don’t think it’s her exaggeratedly done couture hair (with lots of braids, buns, and tiny weird fringes) or her velvet coat, or her white gloves, or her red knee high leather boots, or her folding chair, or her rolling bag accessorized with padlocks and chains that her entry, it must be something else.
“no.” said one of the street charons.
“no one gets back. dead or alive.” said another voice hiding from the dark.
she mustered a deep breath and then yelled at the thick concoction of mist and darkness:
“fuck you! this is a two way alley. look at how both doors sway back and forth. you’re all fucked. let me pass.”
the air thickened as her yell fell on the abyss of deaf ears.
“you shall not pass!” the closest charon said in a monotonous tone devoid of any emotion.
she replied back with a 45mph spit and muttered to herself:
“papa needs to rest rest. it’s been decades. i need to cross and get back else he can never sleep.”
she pulled out a gun from her coat.
coldplay’s yellow will slowly fade in and play in the background.
those homeless guys that float randomly in the dark are the ferry boat operators, the “charons” of the alley; expect them to ask you for coins. you know, for passage.
i won’t say they’re amiable, but they are usually easy if you give them what they want.
tonight, a lady dared to enter the alley but was stopped on her tracks. despite her offers of coins and bills, the charons of the alley denied her entry.
no, i don’t think it’s her exaggeratedly done couture hair (with lots of braids, buns, and tiny weird fringes) or her velvet coat, or her white gloves, or her red knee high leather boots, or her folding chair, or her rolling bag accessorized with padlocks and chains that her entry, it must be something else.
“no.” said one of the street charons.
“no one gets back. dead or alive.” said another voice hiding from the dark.
she mustered a deep breath and then yelled at the thick concoction of mist and darkness:
“fuck you! this is a two way alley. look at how both doors sway back and forth. you’re all fucked. let me pass.”
the air thickened as her yell fell on the abyss of deaf ears.
“you shall not pass!” the closest charon said in a monotonous tone devoid of any emotion.
she replied back with a 45mph spit and muttered to herself:
“papa needs to rest rest. it’s been decades. i need to cross and get back else he can never sleep.”
she pulled out a gun from her coat.
coldplay’s yellow will slowly fade in and play in the background.
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