Existential Midnight.

Does murder have a sound? A wet gurgle, perhaps? I would not know. I do not kill people. I kill time.

I pass my days in New Orleans, a city like no other.

I do not listen but I hear. I hear the burble of the city as it goes about its daily rhythms. Inspiration and expiration. My eardrums thrum until they are numb. I usually head homeways around …