MervielleLondon, March 1898
The resurfaced night irradiates from unusual and familiar attributions; clashing black and white at every curve below the starry skies. Countless composed and collected, red-recognized messieurs and madams stroll through the grassy realm. A family, or clan sort-to-speak, of rêveurs surround you, confounded with allure and heartfelt fascination of Le Cirque des Rêves.
At the end of the Illusionist's performance, you are the last to cease applause. It's easy to indicate her focus was distracted but nonetheless, she carried a spectacular performance with every wavering gesture and mystifying trickery. You stare around at the other patrons and observe the enchantment she's placed on them.
Has time flied so quickly, you ask yourself. Could the night be passing so fast? The dreamlike clock tower of moonlit shades is still juggling silver balls from the hands of a mechanical harlequin. One hour past midnight, you step towards the candy vender. He's seen your face