Half past one in the morning, the party in the French Quarter continues on.
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Half past one in the morning, the party in the French Quarter continues on. The open doors of bars and clubs, where cover bands, jazz legends, and never-will-be's play gentle blues, mix their sounds with the gentle Gulf breeze. A whisper of wind wafts through narrow streets, carrying a mix of beignets, coffee, stale beer, and shrimp. Past The Goldmine, where we danced in the throb of hot flesh, Rap, techno, and Cajun music, the sigh of moving air goes. Picking up speed, the freshet moves down Bourbon, to Club Oz, ruffling the hair of the party boys, who clapped and hooted when I changed into my rainbow shirt, standing upon the bar. Out of the Quarter the hot air flows, on past warehouses and shuddered, abandon buildings to where Ponchartrain sleeps in moonlit breeze. I wanted to stay, dance and drink, you wanted romance, and cuddling. As the wind blows a tumbleweed upon the Texas plain, we ended up, out of money, and out of town. Here we cuddle and love and be alone away from the hurly burly and pell mell of the busy wind blown night. Half past one in the morning. The party in the French Quarter continues without us. |