MY CLOCKWORK SHANGRI-LA
OF FIRES IGNITEDIt was a singular individual who stood at the forefront of the Zeppelin’s viewing deck. Arms held tight behind his dark suit, back ramrod straight, he observed the unobservable. Dawn had still not breached the horizon, and the moon had deemed not to show. It was that darkest part of the night, those minutes before sunrise, where only memories of the past linger, as the future has yet to be born.
“Look at him stood there like he owns the place,” the larger of two obese gentlemen spat, as he and another entered the opulent decor of the viewing deck. “Just because a man is dressed in Savile Row does not mean he should frequent it.”
“Is there still a Savile Row?” the other replied.
“That is not the point,” the first scowled.
“Downright disgraceful,
