Smoke pirourettes around the shrinking shapes of idle speculation. Ritual anticipation settled for the inevitable triage of experience and achievement, dues and wisdom, invitation and exclusion.
Sax throated obligatory admiration, mood recycled in reserve, and the shadows pressed faceless to the glass, watching the shark-moves of truth encircled by motifs, melodies, modes, and measures.
Do you even know, they asked, what it is you want to say, never mind how to say it? Do you have a mouth to match your measures? Chords for your chords, a tongue for your tune? The heart for your beat?
The Kid folded his wings, shuffled his stand, arranged his perspective, and raised his sites.…