The Chronicle On-Line Town and Tourist Sweaty overalls stained with the work of years and filled with small frame glide lightly in and out of the old corridors. The palms scarred by the days of knife fights in Harlem, killing Vietnam, reach into the rotting pile of rubbish which used to be a wall.
Fingers wrap around a piece of old molding lined with nails and jump back.
Drops of blood pour forth coagulating in the stagnant oxygen and frozen in time. Little white angels of dust float weightlessly through the halls dancing on dull beams of light. The light shafts through, illuminating th room like the floor of some Apppala- chian forest as the dust burns the retina and tickles the fields of cilia. The ghosts are everywhere her, they are on every tongue and move like velvet in nd out of the rays avoiding the light. A faint whisper of times not forgotten and really not much different.