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Dreams are at once fruit and outcry against an atrophy of the senses.

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    …or so said Jim Morrison. I had a vivid one recently……

    I imbibe my 15-year Johnny Walker Black with a splash of La Croix, the only cross I bother with. It is served to me by Cora Pearl, the beautiful owner of the Demimonde. She only serves those with a certain glint in their eye. I drink here because every laugh begins with a hoarse and violent Ha! that erupts into the air, adding to an atmosphere so depraved that it makes the Incubus beside me blush. It is then followed by a belly aching symphony whose sounds are made by musicians who have paid the price in life to drink here for free. Not a Christian in sight. Cora catches me wearing the same smile.  I hear the band got a new drummer? Yeah, Charlie what’s his name. He was born after I had died. Another chef d’oeuvre?   Plea…is Cora. Leave the bottle and I will let it bleed out.

    No names were changed to protect the identity of anyone.

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