The notes of life are in the air. The gulf whispers secrets of its active day. I sit humbly here on this old iron balcony and stare down at the lively streets below. A man with his trumpet is there playing for me, but mostly for himself. His case is open and the people walk idly by with akward faces of discontent and underlying enjoyment. Then a man stops. He leans against the street light; one foot crossed, relaxed over the other. He closes his eyes, but just for a moment. Before he disappears, he reaches down to the pocket of his ratted old jeans and pulls out a few coins. I smile to myself knowing generocity still exists.
My mind takes my eyes across the street and I observe nightly jesters acting out their skillful tricks. Smiles exchange and I contemplate if I have ever been lost in such a seductive illusion. The night air overcomes my skin and barefoot I return to my studio. The sheer drapes catch just enough breeze to dance with me and I remember I am alone. When can I share nights like these? Nights when I hear music in nature and see life in the wind.
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