The voice, the bell-yellow voice of the sax plays on. Under the mind like a layer of canvas lie the brushes and strokes, the arms and legs of memory. The arrival on the skin of sound is the moment of love. The unfurling of the pallette.
You say, listen, the wail of breath on brass is mine. No, it is yours. The voice, no longer alone, even when unaccompanied, falls from the blues of evenings or the reds of afternoons, approaches with footprints in sand. We are castled in music, our colors unfurled.
Our fingers on the keys. We see the archetype of design in the sound of the sax, the movement in the fabric of stripes. The sound’s colors draw us to each other. Listen. The wail of breath on brass is everywhere. Listen.