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Prose Nocturnes: Ice Follies
The unwanted stray; the bullied kid; the syphilitic whore, desperate for a dime; the heroin addict, trying to scrape up a ten; the old veteran, anxious to be recognized; the philandering spouse, anxious to be unidentified; the drunk, the unwashed welfare bum, the glamorous starlet not yet chosen by Hollywood: all these are safe in the bunker's deep-freeze unit, perfectly preserved. They are no longer the offscouring of this world but sparkling, glittering jewels to adorn it, to be gazed on admiringly, rather than stared at hatefully, although "each," as Poe wrote, holds "the desparing posture of his fall"; you should feel honored to take your place among them.
