he stood in the road, fragrant with the odor of the azaleas in the undergrowth and the balsamic breath of the low-hanging firs, which were all fibrously a-glitter wherever the moon touched the dew in the dense midst of their shadows.
There were no signs and no one quite knew how to navigate the museum, including, as it was Fleet Week, gaggles of boyish sailors all in their summer whites. It looked like a Frank Sinatra movie. A bunch of these matelots surrounded a police officer, who said: You guys are from the USS Cole? Thank you for your service. Want me to take you around?
You guys are from the USS Cole? Thank you for your service. Want me to take you around?
[…]—Guyana, spatha white, base red, suaveolent.
I bagsy the top bunk of the bed.
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