07.31.04 - 3:50 p.m.

[...desnipping. No idea what this was from or for. Original date is May 2003.]

London in springtime.

It lacks the panache of Paris in springtime, and falls short in the weather department as well. The daytime temperature hovers in the mid-50s and a constant drizzle spits from the leaden skies. Fogs roll in and out, poisonous - sewer gases, exhaust, coalsmoke and coaldust, the usual smog - and through it all: life goes on. Stiff upper lip, bobbies, black cabs and

a royal family so starchily unglamorous that attending one of their family reunions is something akin to attending a Baptist picnic back in the states. No wonder British fantasies run to boys' schools and cruel headmistresses with riding crops and a taste for young flesh.

London, springtime, and the social whirl is as dark as the weather. Rumors filter out of the hothouse of Elysium politics: the Prince is going mad, the Prince is dying, the Camarilla are on the verge of collapse. Visions of King George, then, running down the muddy streets of his capitol in his nightgown, a lantern raised high above his head. Visions of Nero, fiddling while Rome burns.

Fiddling while Rome burns.

That's what they're all doing, really. That's all they ever do.

Elysium changes every night, and each night it becomes more of a challenge to find the venue. Olivia Hammond - the Prince - is paranoid and jealous of her station. She changes venues without warning, but woe to those who do not come. Her inner circle attends her every move - four powerful men (all of them, men) - from four different clans, as close to a council of Primogen as one gets here, anymore. Ms. Hammond

And there it ends.