at the end of the day I think and realise I don’t know if I believe anything I say. words are fickle but such malleable armour. I hide behind them without realising until I’ve forgotten what it was that moved me to open my mouth. there will always be something to say about anything. we make meaning out of nothing as long as there’s somebody listening. I listen to my friend play trumpet in the jazz bar and try to understand the language she shares with anyone who’ll listen. what’s foreign to me is second nature to her. there’s meaning I can’t sense or see beyond how I see the music sway her. meaning in sound and movement unrestrained by the confines of words. meaning in the notes and the melting ice in the glass and the mic that won’t work. meaning everywhere. and there’s always more.
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