hese are words from the pit. From that forgotten place that escapes the
warmth of human breath. I am speaking to you in the tongue of those whose
lives have pushed them to the edge of the world, where the shadows and the
cobwebs gather, because even the spider longs for an embrace. This corner of
the world is the refuge of the last pure thing on earth, because you have to
go to the edges of it all to find anything real anymore.

o welcome to the fringe: that lining on a flapper skirt, that dark jungle
beat, the fire that has yet to go out-- welcome to the hot coal brotherhood
that stews beneath the nose of the underworld-- welcome to the streets that
break into song in the alleys and the train yards, where the wild dogs of
gypsies chase you down and you glimpse the underbelly of a clown. Walk with
me through the fields of men, and take note of the dark and motherly earth
that embraces us all. It is time to see. Transfixed by the fire, stare long
enough that you see the wild dance that shines from the depths, that leaves
soot on your hands and burns in your chest.

alk with me through the stately remains of a fire that burned in the brain
of one who carried a shovel and nuzzled a gun, who walked with the menacing
drum-a-drum-drum of the steel ferris wheel and the trembling nun.

hake the last honest hand that walked through the fire and carries the
brand.

ome step into the shadow of the black hand.