In the springtime of his madness, which is late autumn of the year to you and I, the wayfarer Wally, haunt of Hampton Avenue, began his daily trek across the time-worn paths of the planet earth. Always he glided along the bustling avenue, little more than a specter in blue jeans, his head down and oblivious to the proof of life thrumming all about him. He was of that class needing constant reminders that they were alive, that existence was composed of more than a sequence of repeating images...

She turned to look back over her shoulder, and the world stopped. A slight breeze skipped amongst her black locks, flaring them behind her just enough to grab hold of the golden fingers of the afternoon sunlight and reflect them back brilliantly. The deep crimson of Chanel No. 5 shone from her lips as they quivered hesitantly for a moment before climbing up her face in the initial intimations of a smile. Surrounding her was an aura of white magnificence, owing its genesis to the light reflec...