Sanctuary

In the early hours of the 13th of August, 1953 - a Tuesday morning - there sat a man of fifty-three in a comfortable bourgeoisie dwelling in the center of London, immersed in the seamless prose of Charles Dickens. The ambient,  ticking of his grandfather’s clock worked in harmony with his cognition. His mind impermeable to distraction; totally immersed. Harmony pervaded his space, from the impeccably ordered furniture to the books on his shelf that maintained flawless equality of height. There was not a stray item to be seen, all was in unison. He believed in being organized in all walks of life. Jonathan Maroon was a man of simple leisure’s and simple labors; both of which he regulated in magisterial balance. A stoical man, who valued tranquility over all. There was little that could perturb him, and it was this resolute pragmatism, that landed him his enviable journalistic project.

 In an hour’s time, he would be making his way to Cane Hill Asylum to uncover the reason behind Benjamin Bouffon’s decline into madness. Bouffon had been a very well known philosopher, hence the journalistic appeal. Mr. Maroon was chosen by his superiors due to his lengthy experience and infallible track-record, a seasoned journalist who reported with clinical accuracy. This came down to his belief that in doing his job, he was not only reporting to the great people of London, but to the universe itself; making sense of life’s many conundrums.
The hour struck six o'clock and Mr. Maroon’s cab would be arriving shortly on Galloway Avenue; a familiar place two blocks away from his apartment where his mother and father had spent the better part of their lives. He was very fond of his parents, from whom he inherited his conscientious and steely nature. They had nurtured him by the book, and at the same time ensured he was prepared for life’s vicissitudes. Memories began to stream into his mind, the childhood days he spent on the avenue, riding his bicycle up and down the same path – his mother prohibited him from riding on the road, ‘The road is for gamblers,’ she would say. It was another world.
 Clad in a creaseless, pitch-black trench coat and fedora, he ventured into the foggy, grey hued air of the streets of London. The sun had not yet risen, and the air was typically chilly. This did not bother Mr. Maroon as he stared forward into the interminable void of darkness, becoming a part of the morning ambience. The streets were all but empty, save the occasional stray cat. There was a certain mold of person who could be found at these early hours. This mold of person can be distinguished by their yearning intent and their indefatigable conscientiousness. Never found to meander, they march head-first into the day. A mold of person to which Mr. Maroon aspired.
A jet-black cab pulled up three meters from where he was standing. He opted to take a cab because he wanted to have the leisure to ponder. To hear the hollow sounds of black waves, break against a cove that wasn’t there. It was to be a defining day for him, and he wanted to be in an apt frame of mind.
“So where are you off to, at this ungodly hour?” asked the driver.
“Cane Hill Asylum.”
“Very well.” Silence ensued.
“What business do you have there? If you don’t mind me asking.” Mr. Maroon did mind as he wanted to avoid a long and strenuous conversation.
“Work.” he replied, without elaboration. The driver ceased his line of enquiry.
Mr. Maroon began reviewing what he already knew about the ex-philosopher. He had become essentially a vagabond, found wandering the streets of London with a man who Mr. Maroon had dubbed, ‘the fiddler.’ As his name suggested he played the fiddle, and Bouffon apparently danced to it’s tune in the streets. One might make the presumption that they were busking, but there was no financial motive. Bouffon and his fiddle-playing acquaintance, simply danced absent-mindedly, as if in a trance. Of course it wasn’t long until a complaint or two about public disturbance was made and Bouffon was taken to be questioned. In the police report Mr. Maroon was given to read, it read “subject was non-cooperative and nonsensical, displaying signs of mental incapacity. Sent to Cane Hill Hospital for rehabilitation.” Now it was up to Mr. Maroon to make sense of the situation. To find out what drove a brilliant mind into madness. He began to ponder on eye-grabbing headlines he might use, ‘Philosopher to Madman: Autopsy of a Once Great Mind.’ Envisioning his article on the front page, brought a slight grin to his usually placid face.
The asylum came into his peripheral, emerging from the fog, giving it an eerie mystique. It was a surreal sight, the great building foregrounded a precarious blend of black and white sky, like the sinister mix of a witch’s cauldron. Mr. Maroon thought that if he was to peer inside a mind of madness, he would see just this. The Cane Hill Asylum was a private facility that held those belonging to relatively wealthy families. Charlie Chaplin’s mother had a decade-long stint there in the Edwardian era. The building had a perfect symmetry that was balanced by a double-door entrance and above that, an eloquent clock-tower.
The driver pulled up opposite the entrance.
“Just here fine?” asked the driver.
“This will do just fine yes.” He nodded farewell. This was to be Mr. Maroon’s first visit to an asylum, he hadn’t imagined himself ever visiting one, yet here he was. ‘At least I’m on the right side of the cell,’ he thought to himself. He walked down the long path to the entrance, heaved the doors open and walked over to the reception where he was met by a young woman. She was the picture of youthful exuberance, with her brazen blonde hair and keen blue eyes. Inside those blue eyes burned a ferocious fire that would inevitably be extinguished by the solemnity of old age.
“Welcome sir, I take it that you’re Mr. Maroon?”
“Yes, that would be me.”
“I’ll take you to Bouffon, he’ll be expecting you. You know it’s splendid to have you visit, most splendid! Always nice to have visitors. A young sophisticated man like yourself, is a refreshing sight indeed.” Mr. Maroon simply gave a groan of acknowledgment. He could see through her façade; he knew she didn’t care either way about his visit. No doubt her affluent superiors told her to act gregarious and hospitable towards him, as the asylum would be in the public eye. Her flattery was lost on him, as he cared solely for his subject, Bouffon.


                                                      <U S U R P A T I O N>


Mr. Maroon was then handed over to a warden with the face of a million troubles and turmoils, weathered by the elements of life. His eyes were the charred remnants of a dampened flame. He spared Mr. Maroon of etiquettes and formalities. Mr. Maroon liked that. They walked through the hallways, the unholy eyes of the troubled inmates leered upon the unfamiliar sight of Jonathan Maroon with a feverous desire. A desire to talk, a desire to live, a desire for salvation; to rejoin the circus of society, among the jesters laughing at the existentialist’s joke.
“Walk down the hall, first room on your right.” The warden instructed Mr. Maroon. He began to walk down the hall, now engulfed in the asylums eerie surrealism. Ahead of him was a flailing contortion of shadows, like a sinister marionette. The echo of tapping, accompanied by a fiddle, roamed the air. Suddenly Mr. Maroon found that his thirty years of journalistic experience had left him. He was in foreign lands.

The tapping began to crescendo into climax. Then stopped, leaving only the sound of his own steps. 
“Fee-fi-foe-fum, fee-fi-foe-fum, I smell an Englishman!” exclaimed a voice from the room. Mr. Maroon took a moment to regain his composure, entered the room and was met by the gaping smile of a vibrant man who was cladded in rough navy blue overalls and starkly contrasted shiny black shoes. The room was the size of a small church, only instead of the walls being decorated with stained-glass windows depicting the Lord almighty, they were enveloped in the mind of a madman. The vibrant man noticed Mr. Maroon examining the walls; “That’s Misses Jackilson,” he said.
“I see, and I take it that you’re Mr. Bouffon?” replied Mr. Maroon.

“Yes sir, it is I, Mr. Bouffon, the very same, no doubt the only Bouffon you have come across in your time. As I recall, it is not a common name.” said Mr. Bouffon, in zest. Mr. Maroon began running his ritzy fountain pen across his notebook.

“And would you be so kind as to introduce me to your company?” asked Mr. Maroon. Mr. Bouffon sprung from his seat in zeal, walking in exaggerated strides towards his companion, as if part of a comedic burlesque.
“This here is my good friend, Geegee. I presume you heard his fiddle on your way in, don’t know what I’d do without that fiddle, can’t dance without a rhythm.
” A dark skinned giant stepped forth from the background and mumbled an inaudible greeting.
“He’s a man of few words,” stated Bouffon.

Mr. Maroon took a moment, made a note and looked over to the far left corner of the room where a young, petite woman – most likely in her early twenties – sat cross-legged facing the wall. “And I take it that’s the aforementioned, Misses Jackilson,” said Mr. Maroon. The lass waved her left hand in acknowledgment, her right hand against the wall, moving with diligence. She had wavy brown hair that stopped at her slim shoulders and large brown eyes that reminded Mr. Maroon of the eyes of an owl. After a contemplative moment, Mr. Maroon realized in her right hand was a piece of chalk and she was writing. He looked around, and found that he was enclosed in her meandering scrawls.

Not knowing where to start, he began reading at where a verse looked to take form on the wall adjacent to him:
O’ Insufferable Universe; who transcends our doctrines of right and wrong, of being or not being. You who are all yet none. You who mediate the balance of being. I ask of you, Lady Universe, where in the enigma lies good solace? What trail must we traverse? What toils must we endure? In what far corner lies our holy o’ holy custodian? The soul truly is a lonely hunter.’
“Miss?” enquired Mr. Maroon.
“Yes sir?” answered Misses Jackilson.
“What is the meaning of all this writing?”
“What writing sir?”
“The writing on the wall.”
“Oh that’s not writing, that’s just me thinking. They took my typewriter away and won’t give me pen and paper, so I haven’t anywhere to think. They said it’s no good for me, that I’m mad doing all this ‘writing’.”
“I see” Mr. Maroon simply stated.
“Before I was sent here, I wrote for thirty days! Only stopping for food and drink. It was bliss oh bliss! But what they don’t know is that by the logic of Mr. Murphy’s and his law, eventually I’ll have thought of something worth writing. You see Mr. Murphy says that anything that can happen will happen. Isn’t that great? You see, if a million monkeys write forever and ever – by this law -  one of them is going to write the works of the great William Shakespeare. So I guess that’s what the meaning of all this is, I’m waiting for my very own Hamlet.”
Mr. Maroon nodded, subtly disregarding what she had said. He made a minor note in his notebook.
“Enough about me, what are you doing here?’ asked Misses Jackilson.


 “Well now that is a great question, yes indeed. What brings you to our charming chambers?” Asked Mr. Bouffon.

“Sir, are you saying you don’t know why I am here?” said Mr. Maroon, confused.

“I have not heard a clue nor claver. But it sure isn’t the first time this has happened, people coming in and interviewing an apparition. Calling him a philosopher. Seeking all the answers. And each and every time they leave, empty handed and confused. Are you not among these stray truth seekers?” Mr. Maroon took a second to consider this. Perhaps he had the wrong place. No, the picture matched and he had the right room number. No doubt the warden would have taken great care to not send him to the wrong place. He had the demeanor of a philosopher, with his evaluative eyes that intrusively peered inside of him. Yet he had the zest of a jongleur. ‘He is most peculiar’ thought Mr. Maroon. He had to confess, he found his enigmatic manner to be confronting. Being a journalist, he was used to being the one who does the examining but the roles felt reversed. He decided he would cut straight to the questions; idle chat didn’t interest him.
“So tell me, how does one go from renown philosopher to madman?”
“Madman? Whatever gave you that idea?” replied Bouffon, with mocking astoundment. Mr. Maroon expected denial. The mad are oblivious to their madness. They fail to see the fallacy of their existence. A morbid truth; after all, to solve a problem one must first acknowledge its existence. Mr. Maroon made succinct observation in his notebook; ‘unaware of madness.’

“Are you a madman?” asked Bouffon.
“I’m sorry?”
“I was asking if you were a madman.”
“I’m not the one in the asylum sir, so no, I am not.” Bouffon reached into his pocket and pulled out a scrunched up piece of paper and a lead pencil. He then wrote: ‘unaware of madness.’ Mr. Maroon gave Bouffon a look of apprehensive puzzlement, “What are you doing?” he asked.
“I am simply making observation, as you are.” Bouffon replied.
Mr. Maroon felt a frustration surmount him, this was meant to be the story that sealed his promotion and he was not making progress. Bouffon thought about what he was going to say next. He felt as if his next words were a gamble that would either throw the interview into disarrayed drivel, or begin to get answers. He began,
“Now listen, I have a job to do and I intend on doing it. Not only that, but I intend on doing it well. So if you would show the courteously of giving substantial and, indeed, appropriate answers to my enquiries, I would be much obliged.” Mr. Maroon rued his fluctuated and uncontrolled tone, he was not confident of a desirable response.
Bouffon let out an elongated sigh, got to his feet and - with exaggerated dramatic effect – offered his hand to Mr. Maroon. Hesitantly, Mr. Maroon took the leathery hand and rose from his seat, displeased with his lack of control over the situation.
“Allow me to show you around the place, you’ll find that there lies an infinite wealth of intrigue in the people here. I’ve always favored those you call ‘mad,’ they always have so much to say and they’ll spill it all out like an unhinged fire hydrant that has no reservations on who or what they’re going to dampen.  You see they speak from their gut, totally raw, they’ve slain that forsaken, primitive voice of reason that second-guesses the assortment, the connotations and the ramifications of what they say. You’ll never see this mad type use conversational formalities or banal platitudes. For me, there’s a beauty in that.” The two men exited the room.
They paced their way through the narrow hallways, the stony walls, so deprived and indifferent to the indeterminate subtleties of human emotion. The place reeked of musty air that only added to Mr. Maroon’s discomfort. The narrow hallways soon opened into a central room scarcely furnished with unorderly placed chairs and a couple of wooden tables. The television set, attached to a cracked wall at the far side of the room was mistuned, making a cacophonous static noise. On top of this noise, was the dripping of a neglected tap. There was a total of four inmates in the room, three of which sat a few feet from the television screen, staring numbly towards it. Utterly detached, deprived, as if the static on the screen ahead of them had become the only thing that could provide them with any sort of stimulus. The only thing that could affirm their state of living. The fourth inmate, stood lonesome in a corner of the room, adjacent to the television, clad in baggy trousers and a modest tunic. His weathered hands pressed against the wall. His long scraggly hair shuddered rhythmically as he continuously tapped his forehead against the wall, as if in a trance. Mr. Maroon found him to be exceedingly unsettling.
“There’s the man I’m looking for,” said Bouffon. “Go ahead and introduce yourself, his name’s Donovan.” This was the last thing Mr. Maroon wanted to do, but he didn’t want to show fear. Fear was unprofessional. Fear was impractical.
He began an apprehensive walk towards Donovan, each step building tension. “Hello, Donovan. I-” the thump of Donovan’s fist against the wall cut him off. Donovan jerked his head, now facing Mr. Maroon. Mr. Maroon perceived him as confronting and volatile; the worst kind, he hated unpredictability. A silence ensued. Bouffon felt obliged to intervene. “He can seem a little full-on, I know, but he’s not so bad.”
Bouffon’s consolatory words were lost on Mr. Maroon. He searched in Donovan’s obsidian eyes and found nothing. Yet his eyes held such weight, Mr. Maroon could feel his gazeless stare upon him. He was the picture of apathy.
It became clear that neither Donovan or Mr. Maroon were going to assert conversation. Bouffon, again, intervened; “Talk then, someone should talk.”
“It’s quite alright, I think we’d better get back to your room, to continue what I came for,” said Mr. Maroon.
“Nonsense! Donovan, be a fine fellow and tell Mr. Maroon a bit about yourself.” It was as if Bouffon wanted Mr. Maroon to be uncomfortable, to be shaken, as if he was trying to prove something.

“I’m Donovan and I once killed a man.” he stated, with cold indifference.
“Oh… might I ask what for?” asked Mr. Maroon, unsure of himself.
“Because the moment demanded it of me. It was the will of the night. Sometimes there isn’t any why. You should stop asking why.”
“You don’t just wake up one day and take someone’s life because you felt like it. That’s absurd. There’s more to it than that, isn’t there?” Donovan began shaking his head, with a condescending grin spread across his deprived, wrinkled face.
“You have it all wrong, Mr. Maroony.” He laughed the laugh of a man who knew the answers.

“I have a story for you. A long time ago in a foreign land, where man was only beginning to fathom the world around them; two men were overcome with a fleeting and precarious inquisition about the universe and mortality and everything in-between. They lay down on a grassy knoll, gazing up into eternity. But, the sky in its endless weave, offered no answers. Why? Because the sky is the answer. It is God’s idle canvas; superficial yet inextricably beautiful. The first man understood this, he was able to appreciate it for its intrinsic beauty. To be content with its endless weave of glory. The other man however, was burdened with the naïve desire to delve deeper into the enigma. He made the grave mistake of searching beyond the stars, where only the insufferable universe lies. It is when man begins to rule, measure and equate this universe that he begins to feel foreign and descends down the dark vacuum of desolation. Don’t you see? Mankind’s most fatal error was establishing rules. There are no rules in the animal kingdom!” In a volatile jerk, he lept forward grabbing Mr. Maroon by his collar and stared pleadingly into his startled eyes. He released Mr. Maroon.
“W-We’re done here.” staggered Mr. Maroon. To Mr. Maroon’s disbelief, Bouffon laughed ecstatically. “Oh I’m sorry, this one really loves to talk, you see? He means well.” Mr. Maroon forced a smile and walked off.”
“Until next time! And remember if you keep up with your ‘why’s,’  you are doomed to die in motion, unsettled and dissatisfied with your shortcomings.” He trailed off.
Bouffon said his goodbyes and followed Mr. Maroon through the corridor. Mr. Maroon walked ahead in a fast pace, adjusting his collar, determined to get as far from the lunatics who trailed him as possible. He was disgruntled and beginning to wish he had never come to this ghastly hellhole. Full of corrupted minds and raving lunatics. It was like being at a convoluted freak show where the freaks throw you the flaming sword and name you the freak. And at the centre of this freak show was the ringleader, Bouffon. Mr. Maroon heard the man’s harrowing click of heels close in on him, as if he was dancing down the corridor.
“What’s the rush Maroon!” he exclaimed excitedly. Mr. Maroon ignored him, maintaining his fast pace.
They arrived back at the interview room. Misses Jackilson still scribbling on the wall, Geegee in slumber. Mr. Maroon sat back down at his chair, abruptly pulling Bouffon’s adjacent to his. Bouffon entered.
“Sit. Enough with your games, I have an interview to do here and I intend on doing it!” Mr. Maroon immediately regretted raising his voice; he couldn’t afford to lose composure.
“Look, let’s just have a conversation, you can sit back and just answer my questions. It’s as easy as that, truly.” said Mr. Maroon, quickly collecting himself.
Bouffon readjusted his bowler hat and tapped his fingers against his bony face. A change in demeanor.
“I’ll tell you what sir, you want me to cooperate, I will. But a conversation is a river that flows only with the breeze of understanding, and for you to understand what I’m telling you, you must listen,” replied Bouffon.
“I hear you,” said Mr. Maroon.
“Yes, you hear me no doubt, I believe your ears to be in fine fettle. But you are not listening. When I told you I was not mad, you took no notice. You asserted that I was mad but in the kingdom of the blind, the one who tries to teach about the colour red is the fool. You allow your dogmas to hold your mind hostage. They imprison you to the point that you fail to see you’re locked up. I may be in the madhouse but what is a madhouse if only a name? Who is it that deems us mad? Who has the God-given right to tell someone they aren’t right just because they damn-well can’t understand our actions? I’ll tell you who. It’s the same people who told you what to do with your life before you had even been outside the city of London. The same people who sent you on your fools-errand today. The same people who wrote off Vincent-Van Gough as he peered out from the Saint-Paul asylum painting ‘The Starry Night,’ and who believed Charles Darwin to be a sacrilegious liar, who believed mankind had reached the pinnacle of its existence at the turn of the 20th century and who prosecuted the great Galileo. Time is the dogmatist’s enemy, and soon you will see. For in a world of atomic proportions and illusionary war whose shrouded machinations can only be understood by a ‘craaaazy’ person, you have to wonder what side of these dreary walls hold madmen.”
A silence followed and with it came a reinforcement of the words before. To Mr. Maroon’s surprise, he felt a blush begin to colour his cheeks. He was perturbed. He had read in one of the many books he had read, that man can deceive, mislead and lie all they like, but it’s the eyes that will always give them away. Bouffon had not once broken his steely stare. His eyes held a truthful passion derived unfettered from his mind. His beseeching sincerity was disturbing to Mr. Maroon. Never had he felt so scrutinized. He felt a foreboding concoction brew from the depths of his abdomen, like a volcano that threatened to erupt in destructive balls of fire that would upheave the foundations of his life. He wanted to detach from his mind and the tumultuous disturbance that permeated it. How was this happening to him? Why were his emotions suddenly so volatile?
Mr. Maroon looked up at Bouffon who sat running his hand through his amok array of hair. His mouth made subtle restless twitches and his eyes moved around the room with a fervent need to traverse every crevice of the room. He had the eyes of a precarious traveler who has traversed beyond the opaque hills that gate the settled man, weathered and worldly. A conflict within Bouffon became apparent to Mr. Maroon, a conflict that was shrouded in his jocose demeanor.
Mr. Maroon looked up at Bouffon who sat running his hand through his amok array of hair. His mouth made subtle restless twitches and his eyes moved around the room with a fervent need to traverse every crevice of the room. He had the eyes of a seasoned traveller who has seen beyond the opaque hills that gate the settled man, weathered and worldly.
“Something is happening here and you don’t know what it is, do you Mr. Maroon?” Said Bouffon in a patronizing whisper. His voice faded into obscurity…


<T E M P E S T >
His ears rung with the cacophony of an intangible scream within. The ground seemed warped in a convolution of hazy blur. His eyes were like distorted mirrors, reflecting a foreign nightmare in which all was indecipherable. Nothing was certain. Not the ground beneath him, nor the thoughts inside him. In desperation, he stumbled against the hall, craving escape from Lucifer’s labyrinth. His fifty-three years of life had faded into the all-consuming black hole of time. Forgotten to him. Like shedding skin. And now he felt the vulnerability and anxiety of being naked and exposed.
He staggered down the first hall, hearing the sounds of Bouffon’s manic laugh, unsure whether it was real or a product of his schizophrenic attack. Then came the next hall, the main hall, long and dark. The overwhelming darkness consumed him, his heart convulsing within his chest. He was reduced to his knees. Crimson tears fell, his shirt blood stained. On he crawled, on into the devouring depths of darkness. A fleeting light came in and out of his peripheral, the T.V room. Desperate to escape the darkness, he craved the light in the same way that a moth’s do. But the light offered no solace, it was blinding and paralyzing. Like the dying moments of a dream where morning sunlight begins to penetrate the barriers of your mystic world; leaving you weak and powerless as reality conquers your state of bliss transcendence. A man appearing to Mr. Maroon as a spectral silhouette, loomed large in his peripheral. It was Donovan. A mesmerizing cackle rung madly in Mr. Maroon’s ears.
“How does it feel to be such a freak?” asked Donovan.
“Impossible.” Uttered Mr. Maroon.
Mr. Maroon was at the mercy of his menacing mind. Being torn apart by demons of his own creation. Every inch of his thin body, every muscle and every nerve screamed for a escape. He rose to his feet, eyes wide open. His stiff limbs staggered forward, forward towards the window. Forward towards salvation. And through the window, his scraggly body fell from hell.

                                                               <?>
Outside, the ensemble of sparrows sung a tranquil tune. The sagacious oak trees swayed rhythmically in the autumn wind. A small river flowed through the courtyard and beyond the walls where it divided and became four rivers – an organic treasure in the urbanized city of London. It was a charming portrait for the man in blue who sat on the courtyard bench, his mind as clear as the river that flowed alongside him in the garden of the world. A scene that seemed so distant from the sinful deeds of the world beyond the old stone walls.
Outside, the ensemble of sparrows sung a tranquil tune. The sagacious oak trees swayed rhythmically in the autumn wind. A small river flowed through the courtyard and beyond the walls where it divided and became four rivers – an organic treasure in the urbanized city of London. It was a charming portrait for the man in blue who sat on the courtyard bench, his mind as clear as the river that flowed alongside him in the garden of the world. A scene that seemed so distant from the sinful deeds of the world beyond the old stone walls.
The man in blue rose from the park bench, awakening from his contemplative siesta. He was met with a momentary dizziness, as is often the case when he abruptly rises from long-periods of rest. His mind’s haze cleared, and he began to pace his way across the courtyard, in no particular hurry. He came to the old wooden door, above it in faded white paint, said ‘Block B.’ The man in blue took a glance of reassurance at the writing, and opened the door.
The floorboards creaked in anguish with each step taken; having been weathered by the many men and women who stepped before him. The man in blue took his first left, which found him climbing a narrow spiral staircase which led to the even narrower hallway. Having walked the mazy hallway’s many-a-times before, the path to his room was ingrained in his memory; hence, he took each corner with utter assurance. He found that the narrow, quiet hallways offered a cozy comfort. He could hear only the sound of his own footsteps.
After taking many twists and turns, he found himself in the final hallway before his destination. A warm light from a fire came into his peripheral, distorting the shape of the walls in an oddly entrancing way. Soon the jovial sound of a piccolo accompanying dancing feet filled his ears. The man in blue eagerly picked up his pace. He came into the room, and was met with warm greetings;
“Ay! Hello!” - “So good to see you!”
 The man in blue spent the rest of the afternoon socialising with his roommates whilst playing cards. He now found his eyes giving in, he was ready to sleep. He made his way to his bed and begun laying down when he spotted a peculiarity in the old painting that hung on the wall opposite to his bed. ‘That wasn’t there before.’ He thought to himself. The painting was not new, it had always been of a lion laying in long sub-saharan grass. But next to that lion there appeared to lay a lamb. ‘That’s odd’, he thought ‘but rather nice’. He decided to ask about it.
“There’s something different about the painting.” The man in blue said.
“Yes, the lion at last lies with the lamb. And now you know it, don’t you, Mr. Maroon?”