 |
|||||||
 |
|
||||||
|
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. |
|
||||||
| More later. Gotta go for now |
|
||||||
 |
|
||||||
 |
|
||||||
|
|||||||
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|