How to live in this town when every saxophone is a glittering instrument of pain, its every note a howl of anguish?
I can’t tell you this story, not unless I am prepared to call in the final airstrike: the raging curtain of napalm on Kurtz’ temple over the mournful sound of the Doors.
“Calling PBR Street Gang, Calling PBR Street Gang. This is Almighty. Do you read me? Over.”
I have bared my soul here but there are limits. There are other souls I love more than the fitful god they say created them and I will not reveal their secrets, but how to live in this town when every saxophone comes in under the what resounds like the final trumpet, wails painfully with the most human voice of any instrument built by man. There are songs I will never be able to listen to again.
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