I stop the car and silence the engine struck for an instant by the deathly silence the motor was hiding but then I hear the light and little sounds of a trumpet coming from the glint in the trees, from a wildlooking park across the street. Sticking my head out the window the music is louder and I can see a lone man standing next to a beat up pickup truck, the only living thing for miles - this was accentuated by the stiff legs out dog carcass on the road ahead of me - and he was standing there looking out into the neighborhood playing the sweetest gentlest version of "When The Saints Go Marching In" I have ever heard to the stoic faces of empty gaping houses.
roamin' and ruminatin', untitled (Aug. 4, 2006), via Ernie the Attorney.
A powerful essay on the debris of New Orleans.
I wonder if New Orleans should be like Pompeii or Herculaneum.
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