The Jazz
“I love jazz. Every night there was a jazz fan from upstairs, somewhere. I was in the bathroom crying. Again. Because everyone is fighting their own battle. It was dark. The darkness, lately a very satisfying company. Tears caressed my face like a gentle caress. I was sitting. At that moment, I had the feeling that eternity had stopped. It is impossible. This moment was only mine. A gentle whisper of a piano floated through the darkness, reaching my ears. I wanted to play the piano before. As the rivers quieted, a pop copper voice sounded very low through the shaft at the corner of the wall. It was like a whisper, just for me, just for the moment. I didn't think it was real. But it sounded real. Touching. I got up. Running through my ears, my soul, the music filled the sick wounds. They do not heal, of course, the memory of them shines there when the music is over. If it weren't for jazz, I would die drowning in a sea of tears. A dream was reality, but only in my head.”
D
