I Don't Like Myself You Know. I

If I Am An Angel, Paint Me With Black Wings.

In The Spring Of 1988, I Returned To New Orleans, And As Soon As I Smelled The Air, I Knew I Was Home. It Was Rich, Almost Sweet, Like The Scent Of Jasmine And Roses Around Our Old Courtyard. I Walked The Streets, Savoring That Long Lost Perfume.

Sweet To Think On It, That When We Are Last Weary Of All This World There Is The Rising Sun

An Intoxication With Forbidden Knowledge In Which The Natural Things Become Unimportant.

That Is The Crowning Evil, That We Can Even Go So Far As To Love Each Other, You And I. And Who Else Would Show Us A Particle Of Love, A Particle Of Compassion Or Mercy? Who Else, Knowing Us As We Know Each Other, Could Do Anything But Destroy Us? Yet We Can Love Each Other.