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"Each crumpled interior tells a different tale of Katrina, a family that once was, a life that once flourished. No home captures me as much as this home, the home of a musician, jazz perhaps. A rusted yet majestic French horn sits against the mud flecked wall, a matching band hat languishing on the floor. A trumpet nestles amidst more rubble, tarnished and forgotten, while a gilded mirror leans atop a couch, unbroken, magnificent. I feel part of his life, this man whose photo lays on the table next to a pack of big red gum. Like a voyeur, I've entered sacred space unbidden, space of a family that is not mine, a life with which I am not acquainted. I walk outside to the rotting corpse of a dog, patches of rottie-colored hair still clinging to pieces of rawhide and bone. Was this your home too? Have you died waiting for your musician to come? Perhaps you are what calls me to this home. The animals always do call to me."

My heart is with all those suffering from Katrina, human and animal.

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