Every street in Paris is layered in songs. Every street in Paris is layered in ghosts.
Read MoreInterlude: the keystrokes of transitory—the movement in the rest—the inhale before the storm.
Read MoreJazz in blue & grey, in light & cloud. Jazz like circadian rhythm, like cityscape dreaming, like still before the train comes.
Read MoreI love jazz the way I love empty riverbeds and I love my girl's morning breath and I love the street after it's just rained.
Read MoreWait. Miles Davis is on. That’s half the picture right there. His muted trumpet braids silver around my veins.
Read MoreI think the meaning of this piece and all of our music depends when and where and by whom it is being listened.
Read MoreI’ve learned from music to feel something in your gut. Then you know what’s what.
Read MoreThe story is the same always: one of you leaves first & you both know who it’s going to be.
Read MoreThe work you sent us this reading period was saxophone & city skyline, was blue-lit & dancing, was storm-filled & warm.
Read MoreThe music jumps, cuts, flourishes in a way I don’t attempt to map out, recognizing the particular logic of feel.
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