A Way of Life

A gloom of saxophone rolls the air flat about me. It pushes the air that smothers me down past my ears and around my neck. I sit, with my body immersed in the world, but my head still safely above (as above water) to keep from drowning. The music circles me like a flying fish, sometimes below — out of sight in reality — and sometimes above where I can see it: where it really matters. It is like a ball rolling past me; circling whirlpool-like, around the depression in reality created by my presence.


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