My life was a strange one that summer, the last summer of its kind there was ever to be. I was riding high on sex and self-esteemit was my time, my belle e poque but allthewhilewith a faintflickerofcalamity, likeflames around a photograph, something seen out of the corner of the eye.
There was a young belle of old Natchez Whose garments were always in patchez. When comment arose On the state of her clothes, She drawled, When Ah itchez, Ah scratchez.
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