Orders some emo-aid...Dutch exit
Awaking before the relentless machinery of urban routine (rituals?) fires its engine, while silence reigns (for once), save for the cries of World Cup passions, is nice.
Waking before the drone begins gives one control. So rare a commodity in the life of the urbanite.
Victory and defeat. Passion and imposed schedule. Freedom and constraint. Bittersweet. Sad plus happy equals blues.
Yet, there's jazz. Improvisation within a form. Through creativity, emotion, genius, to uplift a mere form into an art. As from language into poetry. As a building houses various entities at different floors; clinic, spa, newsroom, office, boss and secretary (after office hours, that is)...Jazz. In the bittersweet blues. Of life.
Daddy's finally home. The fishes missed him.
As the sun peeks quietly over, not ancient and cultured gables, tiles ostentatious nouveau richness, the little island of mine starts that cycle, yet again.
Marsalis in the morning, before dawn. Jazz. In the bittersweet blues of life.
Uncle T
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