Our flame light has faded to shadow… The last hiss of our candle has come… It's sooty wick now cold and black… That delicate glow once soothed us…   Long ago, our rose bloomed amongst ruins… Within the warm breath of the candle… Whose flickering flame...

Musette DuBois, was stoned, rising from the bastion of her mahogany bed at twilight's moon—she worked the night shift on cannery row—it was the weekend, and she was free to wander the streets of Baton Rouge—the Rangoon bubbled, with...