I’m curled up on the floor of some little shotgun flat in
New Orleans, feeling beat as fuck. Miles Davis is blowing hauntingly through
the soft room, and some wild visions of a silver vapor woman dance before my
aching eyes. She’s singing that she’s too wonderful to die. A train horn blows
deep and sad in the distant sweaty cool night. Did that train come from Texas?
I feel like it might have. I’m here to write, I remember, and put fingers to
keys, hoping that gone Italian chick in the city of dreams doesn’t forget me.
God I can’t wait to get back and kiss the earth of that
wonderful place.
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