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
 
           
  This page created with Cool Page.  Click to get your own FREE copy of Cool Page!