New Orleans, part 1.

City, sticky as after-beignet fingers, where hand doesn’t glide across page but rather stick-lift-pull repeats along it. Where we slept amongst souls in a slave quarter down a long shadowed brick corridor, behind a wrought-iron gate – cursive inscribed Seven-Thirty Orleans. We were standing, statued, somewhere between Bourbon and Royalty – marveling at foreign whispers and history-stained sidewalks.  We came to be inspired, to understand how humidity expels creativity. To be like the writers we so admired and prose our way out of the post-collegiate mire.