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It was in the autumn, one of those rare warm autumn days where the streets are quiet
and the fallen leaves play tag around your ankles, and I had found myself here
again in this city on the river. Upon my most recent arrival in New Orleans,
a sense of intolerable despair permeated my soul. I say intolerable; for
the feeling was devoid of the comforting, often poetic, sentiment, with which
my mind usually translates even the most unsympathetic displays of the bleak or
appalling. It was a gnawing utter depression of the soul that had begun
to grow in the pit of my stomach, a feeling of despair not unlike that of the
waking-dream of one not far removed from the intoxication of opium.
The garish glow of the sun whitewashed the homes around me, and was
quickly giving rise to a minute throbbing behind my left eye. No more
than three months ago I had stood here beside Theron, at the corner of Prytania
and St. Ann with far different emotions than those that now plagued me.
I remember, how should I forget, the warmth of his flesh, the lies, and the genius
and guile of death as it stalked me.
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