A freezing harbor and glimpse of a parlor, the lost and wayward youth out among the cold docks, reasonable vampires and how some victims stand half-drunk and frozen like condemned farm animals in winter sleet, spewing warm blood from the neck, trying to scream with no sound.
A mesmerizing pine cone mortuary dots the slow-bruising shadows of the boats, the bells ring over the choppy water, a gray-colored sidewalk maze, a girl in a red parka, an artist, the vicious feminine allure, the girl at the cafΓ©, the faux masculinity of the elk and botanical garden, the girl handing out lavish flyers made of antique fabric, by chance you can see a Tigress shark swimming in the bay.
The altered sunlight and pristine kerosene eyes of the Dollmaker, strange bone-like walls as white as spider eggs, a small, cozy shop barricaded with ancient stone, a pitcher plant on the white marble counter, cold to the touch, her cold skin, spirals of yarn, thick-rimmed black glasses and odd, unknown accent, the lazy flood of tourists, a Midas touch as the golden ceiling chandelier and sailboat paintings are all dolled up, a bloodred and fancy brooch from some long-ago dead Queen about the silken neck, the extraordinary wealth and white-shoe display doesn't fit the humbleness and green-growing lilac-like poverty of this secret Appalachian web and wonderment of sunset to sunrise salvation, the scented lash of an attendant, her fragrant hair, the perplexing inky light spitting from a broken lamp, no one should visit here, the ornate coffin shop and crucifix store, the pools of mercury, the carousel of pretty girls.