More McCarthy.

Dear friend now in the dusty clockless hours of the town when the streets like black and steaming in the wake of the watertrucks and now when the drunk and homeless have washed up in the less of walls in alleys or abandoned lots and cats go forth highshouldered and lean in the grim perimeters about, now in these sootblacked brick or cobbeled corridors where lightwire shadows make a gothic harp of cellar doors no soul shall walk save you.

We are come to a world within a world. In these alien reaches, these maugre sinks and interstitial wastes that the righteous see from carriage and car another life dreams. Illshapen or black or deranged, fugitive of all order, strangers in everyland.

Faint summer lightning far downriver. A curtain is rising on the western world. A fine rain of soot, dead beetles, anonymous small bones. The audience sits webbed in dust. Within the gutted sockets of the interlocutor's skull a spider sleeps and the jointed ruins of the hanged fool dangle from the flies, bone pendelum in motley. Fourfooted shapes go to and fro over the boards. Ruder forms survive.