I'm Not The Kind Of Cat That's

The Land Created Me. I'm Wild And Lonesome. Even As I Travel The Cities, I'm More At Home In The Vacant Lots.

The Ghosts Race Towards The Light, You Can Almost Hear The Heavy Breathing Spirits, All Determined To Get Somewhere. New Orleans, Unlike A Lot Of Places You Go Back To And That Don't Have The Magic Anymore, Still Has Got It. Night Can Swallow You Up, Yet None Of It Touches You. You Can't See It, But You Know It's Here. Somebody's Always Sinking.

I Didn't Know Whether To Duck Or To Run, So I Ran.

I Was Burned Out From Exhaustion, Buried In The Hail, Poisoned In The Bushes, Blown Out On The Trail; Hunted Like A Crocodile, Ravaged In The Corn, "come In," She Said, "i'll Give Ya Shelter From The Storm."

Gates Appeal To Me Because Of The Negative Space They Allow. They Can Be Closed But At The Same Time They Allow The Seasons And Breezes To Enter And Flow. They Can Shut You Out Or Shut You In. And In Some Ways There Is No Difference.