Strange Lands, Strange Customs

Having returned from a long and dusty journey, I offer a daguerreotype of one of the locales. (Only one more. I promise. Few things are more dull than someone else's vacation pictures.)

'Tis a strange land indeed, not like our temperate climes. One scarcely imagines how things grow in such an arid place, and, yet, grow they do.

Then, from the sublime to the ridiculous...

All ideas of propriety must be discarded before entering this Gomorrah. The city is the antithesis of Victorian charm. The inhabitants - at least, the temporary ones (no offense to the permanent residents who, no doubt, avoid the worst of The Strip as one would avoid, well, Gomorrah) - are sullen and suspicious, and dress with a complete indifference to their appearance. They sit silently, feeing money and pushing buttons in a solitary ritual, both desperate and resigned, knowing that even success is fleeting. Noise is everywhere: machines bleeping, rhythms pounding, all enforcing the code of silence while creating an artificial atmosphere of excitement, a shared conspiracy, as everyone knows the only real winner is the house...