Tom,
I'm picturing a novel...something in the style of perhaps Poe...or Washington Irving...
I'm picturing Tom MacWood....on horseback...travelling through...oh wait...he doesn't travel.
Ok...cut..
I'm picturing David Moriarty...on the other side of a brick wall...with mortar...as I awaken from a wine-induced-drugged-stupor..
They're talking about Peters, and Campbell, and Barking...er...Barker...and some chap named Whigham who best I can tell is some type of snivelling toady...
Extolling their great, unnoticed designs..all the while the bricks are getting higher and higher...until..
in the distance...the sounds...of hounds..
The barking grows louder..or is that Barker?
From within the walls of this GCA mauseleom, the sound of heartbeat begins...faint at first...the growing...pulsing...constant pounding...until the sound is almost deafening.
Is this a dream? Or is it the 47th Merion-related thread started in the past 6 months...or is it 6 years?
Time envelops into itself, and becomes a hazy, pale mist unmeasurable dynamic.
And then, just when you begin to feel safe...almost calm...someone uncovers a newspaper article from The Portsmouth Behemoth, circa 1897, and in the distance, on a full-moon night, a dog howls, it's choking voice bleating against the stillness, and....frighteningly...
it begins anew.