The vacant halls and quite now. Devoid of life, and parched of its previous inhabitant's activities, it counts its final days, in peeling paint and crumbling plaster.

 Or is it really been vacated at all?

 If one listens closely, you can still commune with the spirits who reside here. Of those long ago departed, and of the routiene of life, inside these dreary, hospital walls.

 There is an echo of feet, shuffling throughout the halls. Prodding and feeble, the young patient wanders disoriented down the hallway, in a medicinal-induced haze. Pale, anemic, and mobidly thin, the wall she leans against is the only thing that is keeping her frail torso, upright and mobile. With her lungs afire, every breath feels like an inferno, and every step a mile in length. Her once pristinely white gown, now caked in bloody spewdum, serves as her own "scarlet letter" she must bear. Accompanied by a persistant, uncontrolled cough everywhere she goes, it becomes a shadow that looms over her. A constant reminder, that the end is always near.

 The potent scent of disinfectant, is still detectable. Eminating from the cracks, of bleached tile floors, and whitewashed, sanitized walls, its overpowering aroma was not only used to erradicate germs, but to purge the constant, overpowering stench of death, that prevailed over all. Lodging itself in everything. From the habitually scrubbed linens, that lined the rickety, iron gurneys, to the drab green coloring of patient rooms. Inescapable, it left the dead soiling their bed sheets, and the living to ponder, just who would be the next to go.

 The squeaking of wheels, announce a patient being prepped for the operating room. Only used, as a last ditch effort, to save someone from the "White Plague". The physical trauma involved with this dreaded procedure, is only surpassed by the psychological scarring it leaves. As patients realize, it is only performed when someone is essentially on "Death's Door", and there is very little hope left. Much like an inmate's trip to the Gas Chamber, you pray it's quick, and painless.

 Deep with the unlit depths of the basement, vermin nestle amongst the stainless steel morgue trays. Creating and perpetuating life, in a place where only death was once fostered, it is only these rodents denziens, that could inhabit an envoirnment so inhospitable, and terror inducing to the human psyche. Adjacent to the morgue, a double set of doors lead to a structure, as equally traumatizing in nature. Like some 500-foot cadaver assembly line, the notorious "Death Tunnel" as it was coined, sits, in all its infamous glory. A monumental structure, of weathered stone and aging concrete, there are wheel tracks still visible in the base of its floor. Worn away, by thousands upon thousands of trips down the mountain, to the awaiting hearse below. Forged with a sense of humanity in mind, its creation spared the living the indignity, of having to watch the deceased paraded past them, like rotting meat unfit for market. Sparing their feelings, and shielding them, from the bitter truth. Which simply put, was this....

 Although some walked out of Waverly Hills, more often than not, they were carried.

 Located outside the pristine sprawl of suburban utopia, resides a statuesque, two story motel. Unassuming in its simplicity, it offers the weary traveller the most basic of ammenities, at an affordable rate. Cleanly, quaint, and tidy, it has played host to many a family, over it's decades long existence.

 But occasionally after dark, an entirely different cast of characters inhabit the dwellings of this motel. And it's only their repeat business, that allows the God-fearing staff to tolerate their patronage, and subsequent questionable activities.

 On this particular night, scattered about one of its sparsely decorated rooms, are the discarded artifacts of human vice. Leftover tributes to fleshly pleasures, strewn from end to end. A trail of lewd and lascivious breadcrumbs. Leading from bed to bath. A torn stocking, left to dangle precariously over an armchair. Pocket size tubes of half-filled petroleum jelly. Stealth enough to be carried in one's purse. Hidden away from the disapproving gaze, of Puritan onlookers. Used prophylactic wrappers, heaped in miniscule piles on the nightstand. Gleaming, in their rubbery, slick radiance. Carnal exhibits, in this unofficial museum. Displaying the mating rituals of the indiscriminately needy, and morally repugnant.

 Occasionally speckled within the confines of the room, are equally debaucherous commodities. Some already in states of semi consumption. Snuffed out cigarette and marijuana butts, stained blood red with lipstick, litter an ashtray. Like spent shell casings, each drag becomes a bullet to the soul. Meanwhile, stacked haphazardly a few feet away on a geriatric television set, stray beer cans emit a scent, that only adds to the sexual staleness, already present in the atmosphere. Pickling the organs of their consumers, in a quasi form of prolonged suicide.

 Her companion already passed out on the bed in a narcotic-induced slumber, depleted from the evening's earlier festivities, the woman herself fights her last, remaining moments of consciousness, slumped against the toilet. Rocking back and forth, she feels the chemical enter her bloodstream, and its grasp beginning to take effect. Releasing the tourniquet, her lids droop, and her heavily mascaraed eyes begin to roll, into the back of her head. As the sandman approaches, her bleached, emaciated skin tingles with heightened sensitivity. Unable to resist the urge to touch herself, she retracts the syringe, and begins to habitually caress her slender arms. Possibly the closest thing she's had to an actual human embrace in years.

 Sliding to the floor, she retracts her knees, using them as a surrogate pillow. With a final nod, a wave of euphoria wisks her off, into psychedelic comforts of the Neitherworld.

 Just another lost character, in a sordid fairy tale.

 Gh0sT

There is a place, called "The Valley of Perpetual Unrest". Deep within the recesses of the urban jungle, and shielded from the gaze of the uptown elite. A place where squalor abounds, and war is declared with the scrawl of graphetti. Where outstreched hands, reach from behind the tinted glass of a luxury sedan, to accept a bag of smack from an unknown source. A wad of bills is traded for a lifetime of miserable addiction. A glance is exchanged between two pairs of eyes. One parched of their humanity, the other deprived of sleep. As one slips back into obscurity with the roar of an engine block, the other receeds into the murky underworld from where he came, to await his next customer. Meanwhile, in the shadowy alcove of an adjacent storefront, the darkness is momentailry broken, by the illumination of a crack pipe. Much like Jonah in the stomach of the whale, this poor creature also resides in the belly of the beast.

 Nobody smiles here.

 Occupants continuously pace the same, decrepit street corners. Over, and over, and over. Transfixed, they wander aimlessly, throughout their own little subdivisions of Hell. Heads down, eyes up, with their hands jammed into their pockets. Speaking their own language, communication is made in gestures, not words. Their intricate expressions ambiguous to outsiders, entire conversations are played out across the street before unsuspecting eyes, mere yards away in a police squad car. As complex and sophisticated, as any clan or tribe. Clothed in the rags of neglect, the colour of their attire is as bleak and drab as the existence they live. Army green fatigues, cheap yet durable, not only serve as practical uniforms for the reality of the street, but also absorbe and conceal the filth soaked up from a life lived in the trenches. Concealing blood, and the damage inflicted in the heat of battle. Waring over territory, over whores, and at times, even over the very right to call this cesspool "home".

 In a place where the hand of hope has failed to reach, there are no 'soldiers'. Merely 'casualities' waiting to happen.

 Gh0sT

 Enshrouded by it's dark magnificence, I am shielded against the outside world.

 Strips of dead hide, thick and succulent, clothe my nakedness like neolithic armour. Tattered and scratched from use, I find them perfect in their imperfections. Possessing a tangible quality like none other, the primal nature of both animal and wearer seeps out from each indigo, pour. Tracing a historical path. From the creature's conception, to it's demise. To the skin's processing, to its purchase. Drawing a map, with a legend comprised of cigarette burns, and scuff marks. Smoked scent, and spill stains. Imprinted forever, like the grain itself.

 The salty secretions, of a dabaucherous night spent scouring the underground nightlife, lie embedded as evidence, to the latest of conquests. Wafting from the crotch, is the aroma of expensive perfume, and waxy lipstick. A hint of glazed saliva still remains on the glossy, black surface of the pant, as the leather itself still seems to be basking in the moment of carnal bliss. Touching it, one can almost still hear the guttural groans and pleasurable signs that came with the exploration of fingers, and the penetration of cock.

 Blood, primordial and nauseating, encrusts itself along the sleeve of my battle-scarred jacket. A testimonial, to both the brutality of man's inability to co-exist within the confines of his own species, and also, as a bitter testament, to the circumstances under which the skin was conceived. Just as warriors of past wore decorated skins into battle, so goes the same for us. Painted, gouged, and brutish, at times they are the last line of defense, on a planet reared on physical confrontation.

 Whether it be fighting or fucking, the skin continues to live, because I live.

 Gh0sT

 It's just after midnight.

 In these early morning hours, a definitive chill is detectable throughout the spring air. As the rest of the city bustles with the activities of drunken debauchery, and rowdy, jubuliant celebrations, just a few mere streets away, resides a solitude that only comes with the absence of life and light. Located in an obscure section of town, and on the outskirts of the entertainment district, resides a weather-stained, one-story brick structure. So non-descript and delapidated, that one could easily pass it by. Were it not for the frequent and inexplicable comings and goings, of its denizens. A complete contrast, to the nature of its surroundings entirely.

 Covertly, I enter the stainless steel doors, and am followed in by a gush of cool breeze. A sign, withered and yellow with age, simply reads, "Men Only". The only indicator, as to what I might encounter, in this decrepit, run-down establishment of ages past.

 Behind the grimy front window of the admissions desk, sits an elderly man. Silver haired, with wrinkles etched inch deep onto his face, he appears as acient as the structure itself. No eye contact is made, as he issues me a towel, linen, and locker key. Before entering the main bunking area, I pause momentarily, to peer into the erie depths of the basement. Referring back to previously read rumors and speculations, I take special note: This where the infamous "Orgy Room" would have existed, many years ago. A clandestine meeting place, for the indiscriminate swapping of disease and skin. Long since boarded up, it's sordid tales and social secrets, will forever remain the stuff of gossip and legend. Only to be spoken about, in the hushed tones of inhebraited bar conversation. The names of the deceased, and the subsequent disease that killed them, but a fleeting footnote in the club's haunted history.

 Beyond the entrance, lies an even more disheartening site to behold.

 The communal bunk area, is a hodgepodge of strewn, lifeless bodies, and cracked leather cots. Lined row upon row, this is where the truly destitute reside. Slumbering in their underwear, and clutching what megar valuables they have left, their only source of bedding, is what is issued them at the door. A well-worn, bleached cotton blanket. For which they are very thankful, and make well use of, in the frigid winter evenings. A skid row ensemble. Decked out, in the rancid remnants of thrift store rags, and gaurdingly sleeping with one eye open. Meals consist of whatever their scant change will allow them from the club's snack bar. Which is usually potato chips, candy bars, or an assortment of other non-perishable items. Surely a feast fit for a popper. Not a king.

 Secluded in the extreme bowls of the building, are the steams and showers. A voyeur's paradise, much of the covert cruising takes place here. The after effects can be observed at every glance, and in all areas of this glorified meat market. Spent condom wrappers litter the bathroom stalls, and the shadowy, recesses of the change room. Tiny soap bars, used as makeshift lubricant, are strewn along the upper tiers of the sauna. Left out to be found by innocent bystanders, they are a seedy testament to the club's true nature, and the gritty, underground subculture to which it plays host. The perpetual disinfecting by the staff, and the constant flow of water does nothing to scrub away the prevalent scent of semen. A prime reason one must be very observant of where they choose to walk and sit, in this testosterone-fueled fortress.

 Soon the sun will rise. For some of the building's inhabitants, it will begin a new day in their lives. For others, it will end one.

 Gh0sT

 Beyond the sanctuary of iron-clad door, lurks another world.

 A world of societal refuse, and needle-strewn alleys. Where regurgitated alcohol, is left to ferment on weather-stained streets, and the host of characters who tread them, are of the grimmest caliber of life. With bloated faces and jaundice skin, they roam, in the perpetual quest of self-medication. Wandering the ghetto, they appear as emaciated ghosts, with the stigma of disease written across every facet of their existence. In their listless stare, and puck-marked complexions. In their uncontrolled tremors, and the rancid, stale stench of their attire. Mere zombies, who have grown apathetic, to the almost embarrassing desperation of their situation. A social standing, which renders them slaves. To both the handouts of good Samaritans, and the felonies of petty crime. With the only concept of "refuge", being that of a vomit-stained doorway, or the lice-riddled shelter cot, they become nomadic in nature. Condemned to rove the metropolitan landscape. Scavenging dumpsters for meals, and pillaging clothes from the deceased.

 In this world, nobody "lives". They merely "exist".