It saddens me that there should be a world where love is frowned upon, forbidden. It bewilders me that love could be considered wrong; that one could be shunned for what some consider wrong love, or for lack of ‘correct’ love. It angers me that there are those who attempt to subdue a stranger’s essence.
Most of all, it makes me pity those who have been blinded by the wrong kind of passion. Hate aimed at the vulnerable is hate misguided. It is blind, hurtful, vying for destruction, not embetterment. Such hate thinks itself the hero, and yet it requests that love faces off against it. No, this hate begets more of itself, and rightfully so. Hate is the answer to hate – the hatred of hatred itself. Intolerance of intolerance. A fire that burns brighter than the fire that wants to subdue it.
It makes me no happier, the need for hatred. Those only yearning to live their lives with the love that is in their heart, they are no soldiers. They are poets, artists, accountants, chefs, smiths, and yet they have to fight a war that was thrust upon them by outside forces. A war simply for life itself. No soldiers find themselves on this battlefield, only those unfortunate enough to have been on the wrong side of the conflict.
I hope in my waking sleep that such a world may never befall us, that such blind hatred may never emerge.
In the matters of the Bazaar, look to love, always.
Art of London
by Edward Five
News of Art, Art of News
The Wastes Of Moulin – Open For Business And Those Who Dare
The most recent leg of the Great Hellbound Railway’s journey has taken us to the Moulin Waste. Here lies the remnants of a battlefield from a long ago war between the forces of Hell and London. It is as far as London’s jurisdiction dares to reach, a metaphorical precipice of a territory even more uncharted.
A small hamlet of a mere handful of buildings stands near the GHR station. It is the home to an Archaeological Institute, sponsored by the GHR, as well as the Antiquarian’s shop and, perhaps unsurprisingly, a small bookshop under the purview of Mr. Pages.
Beyond this hamlet is the Waste itself. A desolate place; on first glance a flatland of eternal darkness, though those who venture further will find themselves lost amongst rivers, quicksands, dreams, and contemplations. The Ministry of Public Decency as well as the GHR warn that the Moulin Waste, while technically available to the public, is dangerous and should be either avoided or approached with extreme caution. Neither the Ministry nor the GHR are liable for what happens beyond the erected fence signaling the limit of London’s reach.
Nonetheless, several guides familiar with the Wastes have made themselves available for hire for any adventure-thirsty individuals. A permit or a doctor’s note may be required.
Ever so slightly we approach the final frontier. Hell, the distant land, now seems closer than ever before. Our heads swirl with excitement and ideas of what may come – though we dare not theorize, not yet.
We shall see you on the trains, dear London.
Ask Mother Goose
Dear Mother Goose,
Ah, I should, perhaps, take on sooner my duties.
There is time for work, and time for rest. Not always may they overlap.