My holiday takes me to a resort for which I have distant but fond memories of innocent pleasures and fine bars. I wander the littered streets until I find my favourite cantina, now flyblown and murky. The proprietor fails to recognise me, and I order a coffee.
Sitting outside in the wan sunlight I am depressed by the changes that have taken place in this once beautiful seaside town. Many shops are boarded up, the youth seem preoccupied with the dusty ground, and the cinema has been transformed into a seemingly unpopular bingo hall.
Worst of all are the diminutive vampires who bowl along the promenade biting the legs of passers-by. The only way to deal with these pointy-toothed parasites is to kick them viciously into the quay. I entertain myself morosely in this way for about half an hour, sustaining only slight scratches from the fangs of these riviera nosferatu. Things are not what they used to be around here. The thought reminds me uncomfortably of my ageing body, and my own repressed desire to live vicariously the lives of others. I realise that although I can understand the sad plight of the vampires, I cannot resist the urge to kick them, flailing, into the grey ocean. I return to my room, and sit at the window.
If there were an observer, I imagine that they might see the cloud-scattered evening sky, reflected in my dark pupils.