Thursday, November 8, 2007

therapy

by myself. feet propped on a chair, leaning back into the black leather sofa that is the taproom, blanketed in red light. my brew sits to my right, lemon floating at the top. there is a pressure in my head, originating from a cold that is working its way out of my system, or maybe it's a new virus infecting me again. either way my throat is raw and i've been in this basement a million times. i'm leaning though, elbow supported by my camera. it feels solid under my weight.

i lean back. inhale, and take in the chaos.

the jazz filters through me in waves. the dischord a welcome vacation. the music starts to melt together into a vibration, pulsing through the red air.

another breath.

and i can feel my contacts sticking. the jazz contains no form. three musicians explode at different tempos, rates.. at his own pace. it drives others away. it drowns them out. it puts them to bed and i laugh. go and hide i say.

the hood on my jacket becomes a pillow on the leather, i'm melting with the beats now. tingling as i watch, feel, listen, become. am. dischord becomes symphony and my dreams drift away.

i'm relaxed

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