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 café, 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.