They hold onto the night with the Lanterns and the last beer… it goes and goes into the morning always thinning down and blue. They drift home with their masks and their drums held sideways. It is back to the tram and the train and the home and the horror of day to day life, where death is always close by, but harldly anyone ever dresses like him. It’s three in the morning there and I still hear them piping in the streets, but a little less and a little less.
