Silent, too. Silent as Tante Fayette's little marble houses, tended in careful, reeking rows the mossy shade of black-barked swamp oaks grown rotten as a Democrat's heart. But the silence here was accompanied by a deadness of the organs of scent as well.
The word entered his thoughts as if spoken by an angel. Like the memories, that came flashing back in peculiar happenstances. Who he was, or might have been. Could have been?