Note 6

Should i have gone for the halloween party of deprived fun mongers, a series of forgotten rituals on a misnomed Saturday night, as you put on the paper knife and the fake blood that drips from foamless lips? No, we would enter, bemused at the stupidly faithful, at those who have failed to chase and caress their fading childhood memories before finding them hollow and shrifted, like hay in a forgotten barn, as they stumble into coats too deep for tiny ribcages, into myth too hollow for parody and mockery, into attempts too forced for genuine laughter. A social or a collaboration of drunkards? Are we more honest in an otherwordly suit? With mascara so thick it shuts distempered eyes? Remember, orientals - we begin another ritual, imitation upon imitation, mockery itself a device. And so what if the wasted vampires tether, dreaming of real blood?