It was horological genius, crafted by hand at 61 Strand and 34 Royal Exchange, London. It was called Elizabeth, by the enduring skill that crafted the great clock, harbored at the Palace of Westminster, as well as a timepiece for the last emperor of Russia. And though his namesake towered steadfast in the midst of London, Benjamin could not persuade his person to arise from the comforts of the Mulberry Vor, a circular divan, composed of handcrafted Macassar ebony and amber citrine, appropriated from the depths of Rio Grande Do Sul.
The liquid globules continued to pelt the French glass. He briefly considered a halt of his breathing, within the silken pause of the goose down pillows. For the world beyond the deftly crafted windows did not mirror the comforts of the artisan’s guest quarters.
Instead, he turned to observe the rarified Dent clock once more.
And now, a torrential assault accosted the solitude of the window pane. Benjamin sat forward, his gaze fallen out onto the saturated corridors of SoHo. It would drizzle this way in the rainforest. A continual emulsion, comparable to contrition in ichorous, beneath the nurturing shade of emerald canopies for days on end. He remained still, his gaze continued on the city, which was once his fiefdom.
Perhaps today, he would have it back.
Implode. Part LVIII – DK