The streets of Paris are lovely at night, just as they always have been
and always will be, he whispers.
I nod slowly, and halt, contemplating all the books he wrote
that I loved so dearly.
but Monsieur Leroux, I say, don't you see, the world has changed
and people no longer believe in the secret mazes below the Opera
or the corpse of a man who once lived there.
they no longer believe in the Angel of Music
or the man that pretended to be him
who could have held the empire of the world in his heart
but had to content himself with a cellar.
they no longer accept th exitence of a lasso that, when used,
triggers a lover's cry simply because they could not remember
to keep their hand at the level of their eyes.
and no longer do they remember the lovers
who played at hearts as children might play at ball.
society is bleeding, for it no longer believes in the magic you once wrote.
That's good, he mutters,
for a ghost who bleeds is less dangerous.
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