a lost writing

Rain is softly falling from the starless night sky, and a mist has formed over the gothic foot bridge crossing the Vltava river. On the other side of the bridge, a slight ways in the distance, lies Baracnicka Rychta. To the east lingers Old Town. I know this, but it's hard to make out in the mist of a rainy autumn's eve. Walking slowly along the cobblestone road, there's a single light coming from the building...the dim red burning of a cigarette.

Tonight she decided to just go home.

Home is a crumbling baroque building on Nerudova Ulice - the same house in which Jan Neruda penned "Tales of the Little Quarter." Home is located in the middle of Mala Strana, clustering nicely around the base of Prague Castle. Many visitors have come knocking on doors in the area. More than enough have come knocking in the dead of night when everybody should be sleeping, and dreaming comforting dreams.

The neighborhood is relativly nice, but the neighbors are another matter all together. Walking along the street, you can hear the crack addicts fighting over who gets the last hit, and the average neighboorhood prostitute yelling that she doesn't get nearly enough dick because these two fucks are too busy filling their blood with crack.