Where better to hide than the great City of Loss? The no place matters but this place and no time exists but now brittle facade of the French Quarter? They sell masks right on the street to hide your crying eyes and give you saucers of sugar to dip your fingers.
Where else but a town that lives ever on the cusp of oblivion to pray for someone who stares off that balcony last night, today, tomorrow? Might as well drink, be merry, and join the second line. We all will get our chance to lead the parade.
And not enough beads in the world to change that. Laissez les bons temps rouler.