The End of the Road

The walls were covered with murals depicting underwater scenes—It was a beautiful, clear afternoon in April—There is a nightmare undercurrent—The room had a high ceiling with black beams and white plaster walls—The town was hilly, the streets narrow.

The parks are full of tropical trees and shrubs and vines—Boats of all sizes were anchored in the bay—A cold wind from the high mountains blew rubbish through the dirty streets—Huge trees, some over a hundred feet high, matted with vines, cut off the sunlight—The place was always dimly lit and sinister-looking.

Tables were lined along the wall opposite the counter—The apartment was pervaded by seemingly hopeless disorder—Great masses of water hyacinths floated by—It was late afternoon now—It was a small beer-and-soda joint.

The room was pretty cold and uncomfortable—The river was a good half-mile across—At the end of the search was an empty room—The chrome plating was peeling off like silver paper—Boats were moored in the dirty river.

The sky was clouding up for an afternoon shower—This is the end of the road—It was sinister and gloomy and chaotic, with the special chaos of a dream—Blue flowers from a blossoming tree had fallen on the bench and on the walk in front of it—The hotel looked a hundred years old.

A crescent moon was clear and green in the sky—There were geraniums in the window—The jungle seemed empty of life—A warm spring wind blew through the trees in the park—The houses were built about six feet off the ground.