Echoes of London
"The Thames babbles secrets as they plummet into depths below, forming chapters lost from sanity's grasp. A hatted man shouts about clockworks weaving conspiracies among the cobbles. Trilobite lemonade, they scoff, is but a currency in the whispers of fish over cheap gossip."
Echoes from Piccadilly's dream, reverberating like metal teeth on frozen ice, singing siren songs of forgotten glories paved over with yesterday's rain.
Parliament dissolves into murmurs an oyster might understand, with each shell cracking a ghostly voice gasping through the echoes of time set adrift.
There they march: The Invisible Doormen in khaki veils, a brigade of intricately wound springs seeking sanctuary within tea rooms lost in a shivering past.