East London’s mist-tilled skies reluctantly made way for two men as they walked south-bound atop the crosswalk. The momentary break in the weather did little for the scattered bits of conversation attempting to be exchanged through hasty breathes and quick trials to push-a-hat-back or pull-a-scarf-up as the mid-winter weather transitions eddied about the gentlemen. Opposites, as previously said, could not have better been seen, for their faces were as cracks in a mirror, one looking calmly settled into his state of mind and the other looking anything but.

The first gentleman, for that he appeared to be, was tall, stately, eloquent in emotion and manner, and otherwise everything expected of a young and pompous London money monger. His name was well known, his reputation creditable, and his enterprises safely settled far beyond the reach of erratic, fickle street-rats. Doctor Martin Braxton, of South Courtney Street, was as reputable as he was professional, and nothing less than the current desperate circumstances, and the prominence of his honor, would have brought him to the slums of East Side to consult our latter focus.

Thus said focus was Mr. Daniel Lawrence, or Dr. Lawrence, whenever he wished to appear professional, as he did on such an occasion as this. At other times he would appear as Lawrence Search-Them-All, if he wished to appear little more than the hobo he was and agree with his friend’s teasing spirits, or Lord Daniel la Caltan whenever he wished to claim to be related to Charlemagne or Alfred the Great or some other extinct figure he knew nothing about. All such remarkable titles he drew from the books he devoured, the newspapers he collected, or his own fantasies which he strung together whenever his endless scour of missing persons was exhausted.

Daniel Laurence, fat, torpid, toad-like man that he was, possessed few enjoyments in this world besides his unethical research of unfortunate souls that had lost their stability in life and had concluded, at last, to result to the unfortunate fate of disappearing from the face of the earth. Death did not grip these souls, nor life either, but some abductive force drove them away to some solitary cave or workhouse where they were not recovered from for years. Most of these disappearances were self-consciously committed, though the occasional sleepwalker or drunkard will wander to a copse or river and never be heard from again.

These singular cases allured the slatternly Mr. Laurence, and the unmaintained rurals of London would have been in much worse condition should it not have been for his assistance on several remarkable occasions. These instances built him some sort of reputation, neither stable nor well-respected, but whenever the funds were tight or the public unappealing, misfortunate individuals brought their stories to this man who dwelt thirty paces west of the Gaither and Foxlord intersection. No great competitor was he to Doyle’s or Poe’s heroes, but was some inferior detective of his own, though he did it in such a leisurely, singular way that no profession was made out of his excursions, only fuel for his enjoyment and a flame for his time.

One can not guess why such a man as Dr. Braxton would wish to consult such a man with such a practice, but this he did on the date of February 15th, 1953, over twenty years since the incident, in which these gentlemen are now engaged, occurred. It took two decades and the death of a prodigious individual to begin the chain of events which you will now have the honor of reviewing, the mixture of facts and fiction separated in their right proportions, and perhaps a life lost revived to some old glory.

I knew a Savior, the Second of God,

Who came, and, in love, with ultimate command,

Taught us to bear suffering, the rod

of oppression, withstand

and yet I wonder if, should all to death their life,

losing, one by one, eye by eye,

Should not the Saint and Sinner, too,

Accomplish little, but die?

Still, I know, in loss of life,

Our Savior in this partook.

For in falling down in the name of Love

His own life He forsook.

And why can't we, His Bride,

Lose our eyes for love,

for yet they are only eyes!

Me thinks its for the sake of Pride

That we dare not go dancing blind-

Sightless, yes, this we'd be,

But it isn't for this world we need to see.

Run, oh Child of the Moon;

Tarry fast away here, past

The mountain as the mast,

And be flown, at last, by noon.

So long have thee sought your sky,

The place flown like the dune,

Lo, it has past and found it dry,

So leave it, nigh, by noon.

Forgotten, I swear, you shall not be,

As temples stand witness to their rune,

Think not again to leave and flee,

But make haste. It flies at noon.

Following the commencement of first-grade, I was rapidly taken with the idea that, if I could indeed now read books, I could write books, too, just like grown-ups. My parents said I was mature for my age, so maybe I could even write something worthy of a spot in the library.

Ruminating on the idea for barely milliseconds, I snatched an abundant pile of printing-paper and ran up to my grandmother's house. Dropping my materials on her chest of drawers, I explained my plan. I was going to write a book. Fueling my ambitions with gumdrops and a music box, she left me to my mission.

Now, I admit now that my first attempt availed to little success. After designing the title page, christening the manuscript "My Cat", I quickly realized that one needs many words to fill a page. Not only was I restricted by my limited vocabulary, I also couldn't figure out how to force my large, sluggish letters to stand up and run properly in an up-and-down fashion. After a few lines of "My cat ran and sat on the mat," (I take no credit for the originality of the idea) I placed down my page to "finish later" and climbed into bed with my grandmother for a treat of more gumdrops and a new episode of "Sofia the First".

I never made any more progress on the book, nor the ones immediately proceeding it, but the utopian dream of having my own spot on the library shelf wasn't disposed of as quickly.

As I transitioned from early readers to chapter books and then from chapter books to classic novels, I found a beauty in language itself. While, momentarily, the fairytale aspect of writing forsook me, I learned to love writing not as a means of telling stories but one of using words. For a while, using the words was enough, but soon I found a peace and friendship with the pages that once held my ambitions.

How does one explain the joy of finding words and commanding them to their desired arrangements? Many sing songs and can vividly express how sound mends their soul but never, or very rarely, does one tell of how the sound of words rolling around one's head and life and walk calms as if it truly were a symphony. As I rule over my arsenal of consonants and vowels, I found the gift of language which continued as my companion for the rest of my childhood.

With the passing of many years, I've lost much of the desire to write a book fit solely for the library. The library shelves are filled with many novels and, when their spotlight burns low, they are cast away or sold. My ambitions, in finding a solid burial grounds, settled for the stable abode of poetry, which I knew could be neither burned nor sold nor ever forgotten even if effort was taken to forget it. I know that few will ever read my castles of sound but, should they stumble across the ruins of my metropolis, I know that the sounds won't ever be cast out. They will be left to spin around the reader's mind, in delightful penetration of his thoughts, in a way that "My Cat" never could. Maybe, when I am gone, some sounds will remain singing still.