“‘102’ appears here, on this utility box, far away from the Regent Theatre.”
“Better not call it that in the blog,” requests [delete name].
“Regal Theatre, then. Like in my own home town.”
“*This* will be your hometown soon, he he.”
“Yes. But this is about a 1/2 mile down York Street (and then some) from the theatre. The Regal, true, was 102 years old on the year after the graffiti was created in that namesake alley of mine beside it, the one where Bart Smipson — I mean, where he traveled between dimensions.”
[Delete name] let me unwind my theories, remaining silent. She stared at me with those dead white eyes. I figured I’d be in a bit of trouble if I didn’t get to the heart of the situation tonight. In front of me was…
“Continue,” she requested, not wanting to rest too much at any one pause. Good idea.
“Anyway,” — I’d lost my train of thought, as they say. Better back up to the cemetery. “102 is dead?” I theorized.
Pause. “102 is death.”
Icebox Diamondbox field seen in same Photo Sphere where red mysteriously switched with orange
Sunklands 