Sometimes, I wonder what is like to be down there, among those below. I see them trundle and waddle and wade and trudge. They sway and they swoon, they grumble and they gawk. I sometimes wonder what it would be like to be down there with them. To walk among them for a day. Alright, maybe not a day. I bet I wouldn’t last a minute. My dress would get tangled in the mud and my shoes would slip right off. But to be with them for a moment would in interesting. It may become a subject of conversation at the next dinner party Father throws. He needs more stories to impress the Duke.

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But then, I see one die. I see one die and they just lie there. They lie there in the mud and the shit and dirt and they don’t move. Well, of course they can't move, they're dead, but no one moves them. They're kicked around a bit, a few people stumble over them, but their body remains. Slowly, it's kicked and stumbled over and nudged and bashed until it’s at the side of the road. And there, it stays. It stays until its flesh falls from its bones, its hair falls from its scalp and the rats find a new food source. The smell, the stench, doesn’t seem to concern anyone, nor does the sight. I sit in my window, watching them wander around the streets, and I see that none of them care. None of them care about the poor man, or woman, I can never really tell, that has died. And with that sight, and that thought in mind, I stop myself from going down and opening the gates. Because I do not want to end up like that person. Plus, my dress would be a nightmare to clean.