18. At The Grand Pavilion, Brighton

How calm the dead in fancy dress. Not a look of unease, not a sign of distress.

In The Lanes they loll with mysterious smiles: all the young bloods in their Regency duds beatified. Terrors twinkled away like froth on a last latte.

But now the party’s over they seem relieved, as if life had been an interruption in some enormous dream.

Dream easy, I say, to the serene faces, that become each day, I swear, more beautiful.

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