And this is how it would end.
 
Lighting up another cigarette in this ill lit room, swigging scotch I should be saving for a better day.
 
These heavenly adjudicators, divine rulers by brute and fiat reign didn't take a liking to my words.  They never did and now it's time for my retribution.
 
The canal's lamps shade a sepia on all they surround, plunging the wrought iron railings rust further into orange, only dampened between by the black backing of still water.  This town is dead, and as for the school, it was meant to die.
 
How many generations walked the hollowed halls, how many walked out victorious and ready for the world?  How many would become what we know as the greats, and how many came back as the illustrious alumni to fund and forge the next round?
 
So what if things went on here not safe for any man's eye, much less a child's?
 
Someone had to break the news and stoke the fires.
 
I simply wish it wasn't me.
 
Simply a journalist coming back with the best of intentions.  The best of intentions.  That's how all terrible deeds are done.
 
They're coming for me, to steal my skies and stars, and bring the truth to heel.
 
I step out onto the balcony into the early seaside morning.  The breeze chills to the bone, scotch be damned to fight it.  Looking out onto the sea the tide clutches to the swinging of the moon and breaks against walls we've stood against it.
 
The contained fire of my lips idly falls down and flutters out against gravity and all that opposes it.  I too, shall join it.