Blake

Blake is a massive apocalyptic beast living among the ruins of the central cemetery. His cold gaze spreads hatred and anger. One can see him every morning walking bent over, in a black, shabby suit, tailored in Victorian style.

When living near the graveyard, I used to drink bitter coffee, made on the potbellied stove, and look at the black crows through the dirty, smoky window. I smoked counterfeit Cuban cigars with extremely high toxicity while girded ash and spiderweb dripped from the cracked ceiling. Going out for the morning round, one could see Blake cutting with a sharp ax the dry corpses that had mummified in the mists of time to set the fire.

This was his way of saying hello, raising his scythe menacingly, spitting angrily into the ground, and making the sign of the dagger that was to slit your throat. You couldn’t help but love him. He is the one who would lead you into the darkened realm of eternally afflicted spirits.