Dear Jasmine.

If there was ever such a notion as the English Dream, I surely would be the man to chase it. I could have allayed myself into believing there was such an idea or vaingloriously attempted to prove there was such a conception, but I know that I am no prophet I and would then have been a representation of the idiocy of today.

I continue to witness idiocy and report of it in this memo.

It has been sixth months since the National Health Service collapsed and dear “Old Blighty” fell wanking to the floor. The streets are in turmoil, the deceased and carnage all form a hybrid of government swine. Only this morning did I see a rat slumbering in the ribs of a fallen child. The child’s eyes are now marbles for the wicked magpies and the imminent vultures. If only I could see the white dove.

There are words among the few who remain here, Common parley about the guerrillas attacking a U.N. supplies truck, a callous attack which has left workers dead with more to follow. From my alcove, at 13:00 yesterday, I watched an aged woman stand on St. Mark’s proud and benevolent figure vociferously announcing:

“We are already dead: our bodies are yet to catch up”

With that she departed quickly and passed the metal through her temple before collapsing.

An awaiting scavenger hastened towards the cadaverous figure, seizing any possessions she had and triumphantly skipped away with the firearm, like Behemoth in Moscow.

Informers have just enlightened me with the harrowing news. The guerrillas are holding Comrade Divan ransom for £10 million with the promise to reallocate penicillin and antibiotics to the remaining public.

As I sit and write this in the cold, I watch the destruction of our generation. One generation got old and Divan’s got sold. These judgments and incidents have only rejuvenated how our civilisation exhibits their true personalities at times of crisis. Jasmine, I feel suicided by society, and don’t think that I haven’t contemplated it already, because at night I hear the bombs break and although I am not in Baghdad and Basra, I see the nation that has shot its own bulldog spirit, purging any remembrances of Nelson or Churchill.

It’s still beyond me to think that society’s greatest capital was lost by political meddling and yet nobody was punished. Instead we are punishing ourselves with unrest and slaughter and any sort of ceasefire is quickly abandoned, through boredom of the extremists. It is not sustainable for us to continue feeling any synchronously innate needs when our paragons are in tatters. I have faith in knowing this is the Naive Covert Party’s Roman holiday and, after checking in, left Britain much alike to Heathrow.

I fail to report any optimistic thoughts my dear Jasmine, and continue to wallow in these dire and oppressive surroundings. My only hope is that you are safe and that you don’t fret for me, as I am faithful to my promise to remain in contact with you every five days. If you don’t hear from me within that span of time, assume that I am dead.

                                                                                    Abel

After carefully checking the letter, I decided the best time to transmit it to my sister was the day after today. The decision was made after recognizing that I only possessed six Paracetamol capsules, when my courier demands ten. Turning my back on the room, I placed the letter in my pocket, and made the best of my way to the main quarters of the building, hoping the process would not disturb any stiff companions. My advancements towards the great casement, allowed me to recognise the power and amount of light that penetrates from the sun into the building.

Amid my gazes I noticed, in the edifice ahead, the curious apparition of a mischievous sprite, taunting and observing my actions, as she cut an apple with a flick knife. She motioned to me with her hands, and I translated it as a signal to turn around. Whilst debating whether to trust this demon’s gesture, I felt an unfamiliar and cold hand placed upon my shoulder, which I believed was not the hand of any aforementioned stiffs. I felt a great sense of helplessness and danger as the sudden and strong hand pulled me around: drew me level to the foreigner’s stance and cried to me:

“We’ve met before, haven’t we?”

As he said this, my terror was rationalised as I tried to figure his identity by searching in his unfathomable black eyes and as I delayed my response, each crease on his face enlarged and was glossed by the appearance of his teeth and the shrill snicker of an imp.