Twilight falls on this section of heavenhell named "The East Village", and The Children of the Night come up from the dark tunnels below the earth like so many expensively dressed bugs. Hear the skitter-skitter their pointy-toed high-heeled boots make as they scuttle off to the strobe lights and smoke filled atmosphere of the nearest club. Another long, hard night of posing and shallow intellectualism awaits them, agonizing over poverty - at least until Mummy and Daddy's check arrives the next day. And I? I sit in the shadows, watching, feeling the bile rising in my throat as I watch my perfect dream gone awry. How could they know, the newly initiated, the true meaning behind it all, that its NOT about the clothes of the music or the colours. It's about the soul, and not being afraid to peer into the dark mirror. They, who spend so much time looking in outside mirrors, have never faced the truity in the inside reflections. The use drugs as an escape, not as a path to visions of the truth. So they go about in their insect shoes with their insect minds leading their insect lives, and I look on and cry. Oh my children, it was never meant to be like this!
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