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The clock strikes midnight and the crowds stream out of the Quarter. Maybe you linger in the darkness of a doorway, shrinking back as the procession of police on horseback push out the last of the stubborn revelers.

An eerie quiet settles over the street even as the smells of too much alcohol and excess linger in the still air.

This figure appears as if from nowhere and marches toward you.

"Are you ready for the final parade?"

Ghost Player Musician in New Orleans

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