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Decatur Street

Decatur Street is a foul sewer in the afternoon sun, running with taxis and buses full of tourists and sanitation trucks full of their leavings, the half-eaten oyster po'boys and vomit scented drink glasses fermenting beneath a cloud of thick with diesal exhuast.

We sit at the bar of the Abbey, M and J and I, but don't turn to look outside. M has discovered she loves Ramos Gin Fizzes and Betz is happy to make them, provided we can produce the egss. J has learned that the Central Grocery sells dried cod, an evil sort of fish jerky.

I need to finish this draft to make this place of memory complete.

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