I live in a city of the dead surrounded by a city of the living. The great cemetery of Kensal Vale is a privately owned metropolis of grass and stone, of trees and rusting iron. At night, the security men scour away the drug addicts and the drunks; they expel the lost, the lonely and the lovers; and at last they leave us with the dark dead in our urban Eden.
Eden? Oh yes — because the dead are truly innocent. They no longer know the meaning of sin. They never lose their illusions.
Other forms of life remain overnight — cats, for example, a fox or two, grey squirrels, even a badger and a host of lesser mammals, as well as some of our feathered friends. At regular intervals, the security men patrol the paths and shine their torches in dark places, keeping the cemetery safe for its rightful inhabitants.
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