He pauses a blink and passes fog-quiet without hindrance into the Hall of Stews.
Perpetually brass-lit and fantastical, this outrageous lane of leaning pleasure houses.
The pungency of opulence and redolence of sex, its spillage and carriage, its seas of groaning and tides of sleeping surfeit, assault his inhuman senses.
Tickling and prickling.
Loathing and longing.
The shadows here scream, and pull like chained ribbon-tatters from the copper wind-lamps.