The Sweet Savour of Rot
The humidity in New Orleans does not ask permission. It arrives in the early hours of May, when the night has not yet surrendered and the morning has not yet committed, and it moves through the French Quarter like a slow secret, wrapping itself around the iron balconies and the moss-draped oaks and the walls of stucco that have absorbed two hundred years of sweat and perfume and river water and...
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