Marcellin Blackwater Honore

挨拶

Thunder rumbled in the low heat of Louisiana, rain pattering down. Ripples dancing on the surface of the water. The once abandoned mill, now thriving as the joint where the Les Cros Noir usually live. The joint had settled into its nocturnal rhythm. That particular brand of quiet, that usually meant most were home but not everyone was asleep. Steady percussion of rain hitting metal and concrete, bells of the raindrops on water. The kind of sound that both soothes and masks.