upon arrival the jazz band played - with no introduction, as a jazz band should - they played the celebratory section of the cerebellum, igniting the mind and tantalising itself into a warm and slow haze - it drifted as swayed along with the movements of the sweaty bodies that drifted and swayed along with the movements of the music - if jazz be music, that is - a man younger than myself finds himself next to me and puts his hand on my shoulder - his head has sunk with drunkenness, yet he still finds the ability to nod and shake his head in appreciation to the jazz that plays - i rest a hand on his cheek like his father never did and it makes sense of the jazz now and he's back at the bar before i know it - im alone - we all stand and watch the cats blow, but i don't notice a thing - inside my mind is sifting these notes and taking notes like a neurotic art-man - i don't see what everyone else sees - fame is a teenage wet dream and best left sleeping - art is sex when you never want to sleep - i appreciate art - and you don't need eyes, ears, taste, touch, or lobes to understand it - just a heartbeat that keeps the universe alive - if the universe existed, and life on earth wasn't around to see it, would it really exist? - if we stood here right now, and no jazz-man gave us his soul, would we be confused? - i head to the toilet man, and walk and stride like im being watched by a million ex-girlfriends - i piss nice'n'easy and my hair looks good as i wash my hands - a drunk man says something funny and the rest of us laugh, but we all eventually head-on back out head-on into the jazz sounds and stand with our friends and loved ones - eventually it's time to go and we're all a little sleepy - someone wants another drink and we tolerate them for a few more minutes - by the time we've found a ride home there are more drinks being bored and we're back ridin' - somehow the dude in the back-seat is your new best friend and you never want to stop or getout of this ride - you joke about keep on ridin' man, but everyone gets it - by the time youre home you're simply tired - sleep is easy but sometimes you dream of nightmares and wake in the sweats and you can't explain any of it - things so traumatising demand an explanation but as you lie awake listening to the heavy breathing of the girl next to you and looking at the gray-fuzz that is the ceiling and it's fan, you cannot explain the terror-dreams that your mind just put you through - where did that come from? - so much death, in such a fashion, and why did those particular loved ones deserve to be a part of such a horrific scenario - i gag myself awake again, think of new ways to apologise to my loved ones, and scan my cd collection for some music to drown out the trauma
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