Impressions after LOST HORIZON, by James Hilton
The Valley of the Blue Moon, a verdant and slightly concave sprawling hollow at the foot of the largest snow-capped rock I ever laid eyes on, is not home to me, nor ever shall it be. Had I entered Paradise under my own steam -- not kidnapped -- I daresay my impressions of Utopia would be immeasurably more favorable.
For a certainty, I long for the hustle, the bustle, the din of my dirty and lusty city by the bay, whose roots sink deep into the ancient mire of human folly and wanton avarice. What some men consider the deplorable state of fallen man and his consequent foray into all things bad is what titillates and nourishes my aching soul. I suck life in through every pore of my unhallowed flesh, fed in such a manner that would unhinge the pure of heart.
I have neither desire nor need for a perfect state of affairs and a seeming comfort that coddle the body but eat the soul.