The truth is, he had exceptional views… the world over.
The unpublished two-storey penthouse, at The Mandarin Oriental, Tokyo.
The extensive palatial villa, well-appointed by his debonair friend, secluded within the whimsical bluffs of Saint-Tropez.
And yet, on this day, he sat within the quartered solace of medieval abbeys, appropriated from the faithful villages of France, now solemnly restructured above the weathered granite of the Hudson River. Though his manner and philosophical core were far removed from those of the Order of Saint Benedict, his devotion was no less pious than the principled celibacy of his religious predecessors, whose solemn monks would occupy the same stone slab, in devout contemplation, twelve centuries earlier.
Amongst hart’s tongues and quince trees, the de Gris Laurent heir would seek an audience with ethereal sages, though try as he may, would only encounter the persistent shadow of his current self. As the rain continued its baptismal descent over his person, Benjamin would adjust the wool coverage upon his neck, provided by the collar of his Gucci pea coat. Though the Masala chai had cooled some while ago, his thoughts remained on the Indian subcontinent, where he suffered the furies of love and sought in vain for the Triple Gem. Despite a return, devoid of its treasures, his lachrymose frame maintained the posture of hope, supplicated upon the antiquated bench.
And though he was not a religious man, the veritable aura of his current Gothic enclosure evoked a moment of humility, and the quiet hope of a tangible peace.
Implode. Part LXXI – DK