Pretzel Logic

[ceciliatan]

Mirrored from the latest entry in Daron's Guitar Chronicles.

Bourbon Street was the same as last night, with people wandering through the bright neon-lit humidity looking as much at each other as at the store fronts and bars. Music poured out of every doorway and was sort of soothing after a while, the booming bass of one place fading into the cajun wheedle of the next as we walked, Bart bright-eyed like a fever victim and me, well, me just me.

We didn’t talk, but we didn’t not talk, if you know what I mean.

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