THE FINAL NOTE
As soon as I have finished writing this, I will tuck the scrap of paper into the left inside breast pocket of my jacket. There, I trust, you will have no trouble in finding it. * If you can be bothered to look for them, there are some very picturesque views in this city. I am basking in the delights of a bird’s-eye view of the vast urban expanse; it is a modern-day jungle, of skyscraper canopies, of brightly-winged steel birds, of apartment-block pine trees, of beetle traffic wardens and spider Buicks. The architectural vomit of the industrial revolution spreads over the delicate landscape as if waiting to be cleaned up. Scenic though it may be, one can’t but feel a sense of pity for its inhabitants. Belowme, a modest building with an immodest spire lies furtively between its towering neighbours. Due to vandalism – or perhaps just fate – its once inviting blue neon sign now reads ‘THE CHURCH OF LATTER-DAY S IN S’. It had attempted to fit in with its mercantile surroundings, but alas: the jungle giveth, and the jungle taketh away. ‘... I’ll state my case, of which I’m certain ...’ Sinatra sings from the battered phone beside me. His crooning voice glides across the rooftops at this time of night. The heartthrob’s swinging dirge has as an audience the benign city skyline; his tiny, lit-up face has as an audience only me. In that glowing screen do I feel the weight of history. The quaint orchestral backing, now an anachronism, lends him an air of ineffable melancholy.
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