Blue.
As I sit here writing, King Curtis blows out a whiter shade of pale.
Words...
come to my mind to describe the emotion this tune carries along upon golden notes, like dewdrops hanging from a spiders web, each toot, poo-tee-woot and poo-tee-weet takes me further into my mind. Way down inside. Down to where the mad March hare runs and Alice lives.
...And I write them. Whether or not they are understood. Whether or not they are read. Just so long as they are there.
Visions...
leap into my third eye, I sense the presence of the disembodied audience that I hear through the sweet simpatico of sound. I know these people, they are our friends, our lovers and our legacies. A voice in the crowd says "Yes," and in my mind I see Dean Moriarty pop into existence, he smiles at me and darts off into the crowd. Far away. A being of time and space now. A conglomerate of individuals different memories, created by God and kept alive by the words and the music.
...Close enough to touch.
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