An assassin is always one prayer away. You're looking for her, and she's a ghost. She told you about the shipyard where the bones of all the old boats sleep. She told you about the razor slashers, the seedy underbelly of a quaint vampire enclave within the harbor, and the daily bells of a buzzing tourist hive, the paradise of thieves.
Do you remember the café windows and how they looked like empty eye sockets? The aching, wooden planks of the boardwalk, a drunkard telling passersby that human flesh tastes like veal, not tough or stringy like game meat, a loud, sudden burst of chatter and laughter from a passing cluster of foreign schoolgirls, white magic and black magic; and an unflinching, bloody egg overhead casting eerie, marrow-like, shadowy reflections on the drowning white water and the hot red lava sand between her toes feels like Heaven and all human beauty, as the golden-chained angels play in the sky, small blue faces painted with flying, fat flowers and slender ribbons of yellow and pink-pastel spirals that look like open palms waiting for rain.