Saturday, March 15, 2008. Your alarm clock is playing songs you don't ever want to hear. The coffee is burnt but ready. This is your morning wake-up call.
The sunshine is oranger in New Orleans because it's below the sea level. The sun tires out by the time it reaches her and loses all of its brash brightness, like the sun that reaches Florida shores or hits California sands. Even the sun is world weary down along the court house, watching out for voodoo priestess' looking to scam from him a buck. Gypsies sit on park benches and read hands, asking to feel the warmth of their wallets. So many skulls are left unburied. Roman Catholics hold rosaries over post recovery streets, their hands illuminated by the golden halos. He can hear distant horns pouring through the streets and teenage girls following, he goes deep sea fishing when following out the Mississippi. He even lingers for nights in the French Quarter. The city and the sun fell in love when small boats were sucked out past them into the oceans, blown back by the winds. Is "oranger" a word? Lets go get some beignets. Wake up.
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