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Mr. Rogers Don't Live Here
n a night when the inky sky is wearing a shroud, and the moon eyes
through vacant spaces a
ken phonograph playing ghostly melodies. Sluggish souls tremble as super-
natural organs play tunes of terror in the waning light. While thoughts swarm
of "things that go bump in the night" and devilish demons dance, the green
and yellow eyes of obscure creatures watch from the shadows. The neighbor-
hood has become a dangerous jungle of broken bodies, vacant eyes, and wild
creatures waiting to pounce on unsuspecting souls.
Broken buildings are like bodies that have been used and tossed aside.
These hulking, crumbling structures fling concrete boulders from their roof-
tops: consequently, the fused stones, as if tossed by evil imps, become mur-
derous missiles of destruction. The unsuspecting traveler, unaware of their
formidable firing power, now wears a bandage on his head, a reminder of the
neighborhood's ability to strike swiftly and painfully. Windows, framed but
without glass, squint as they watch passersby stumble on rippled sidewalks.
Snake-like cracks wait to ambush unsuspecting victims. The menacing walk-
ways connect the vacant spaces of deserted lots and the streets that are as
mean as lions chasing lambs. The neighborhood is littered with a variety of
paraphernalia: the unfulfilled visions lost in bottles of drowned dreams and
needles of forgotten promises, the obstacles to the art of survival.
Vacant eyes are connected to lost souls. Dealers of every type of drug are
lurking in deepening shadows: buyers rushing in to purchase the ability to
forget. Dreams are forever lost after these transactions, like Satan's spawn.
Pushers are cackling witches during a late October's eve as they collect all
debts due from hopeless junkies. The wasted eyes are only capable of search-
ing for someone to rob. Fatalistic criminals are prepared to relieve hard work-
ing citizens of their pay, and ladies of the evening are sometimes the forgotten
players in this hellish nightmare. Young and not so young women, neurotic
and high-strung, slither through the damp and filthy ruins seeking profits
hann for lar hur not anioring the trade: these ladies driven by