Sonorous and seductive, the tolling carillons ring in the evening hour. This is the magic of Whitechapel; at sun’s fall a spark of liminal alchemy ignites the blighted city. Even the ditch-diggers feel it. A change, a turn, a transformation. The brutish depravities of the day are lulled to a decadent limerence. In daylight, cut knuckles and bruised bones are evidence of wounding. In candlelight, every injury is an invitation. Two weeks later and snow falls ashen on Mitre Park, a descant dance into an open wound. The softest music, tender as the touch of roseate lips to an ivory throat.
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