A scrap of paper pressed between the pages of a book, a wrinkled and ruined shred of memory folded twice and covered in the barely legible scratches of my own drunken hand:

“29SEP2010 – Sitting in a pub somewhere among the wet shadows of the French Quarter listening to music that was born before I was a gleam in my daddy’s eye; anthems of parties gone away, time frozen in the white sparks of bodies of bottles behind the bar. Keeping things in focus is like nailing a fried fucking egg to the wall…”

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