anamania220

It's fever season and the city shutters its walls and streets, closes up shops and drops an awning over the river. Pontchartrain is clogged with yellow flies again and the soft warning of women's skirts disturbs the dust. Breathing does no good here - the lungs still sag in the heat and skin is soon pocked by travelers in the dark. Each brick shifts and protests, wondering what is wrong inside and why no one is growing old. Only the doctor moves, stepping on cracks like a criminal in search of miracles and dinner.