listening to them, you felt as though you'd gotten away with something lewd.

-- on the bass, his digits having a one-sided and urgent conversation with themselves, rushing up and down the spine, but never so fast as you didn't believe he was stroking the back of that long neck — up, then down — well-accustomed and grateful lovers. curling, then flat over the strings; frantic and measured they pull then stifle.

the pianist drops everything down like rain: the note flows from the shoulder to the  elbow to the wrist to the palm where it drops from each phalange, liquid across the keyboard. he stand and bends over the ivories into the mouth of that queen and places dampers on the strings to play more strangely.

dave on drums with his green tatto like an errant finger painting some well intentioned child had poked into him with an index finger. he leans over his instrument, too, tracing circles on his cymbals with the crying drumsticks.

i thought of you. i composed a letter to you in my mind, a long one, that stretched almost the duration of the music. what would you think of the literary magazine? i remember walking with you on locust and you said you would call it the egg tree and we decided it would be children's stories for adults — we would stop and gaze longingly into the old newspaper press, is is there that i developed my love for printing machines?