That Raspy Drwal

Jazz. Delectable art divulged like chocolate into the ears of philosophers to philanthropists. Constructed and built on emotions, and celebrated from every direction. That raspy drawl of trombones and oh-so-perfectly overblown saxophones creating the true sound of brass. Creating the word, brass. The brassy wind breathing through colonized fields of golden wheat and barley. That inscription in a language of pure harmony and imagination. Where the man on the moon plays a muted echo of a trumpet that can be heard from Heaven, and Heaven on Earth. Where Adele is just a singer and menswear is a prescription because jazz is your drug now. Goodbye banjos and mix tapes, and computerized projections! I found a world where I belong. I'll be in Amy Winehouse's closet found in the living room of Tony Bennett's mansion. This is where I belong. Jazz is my drug. From that raspy drawl of trombones and oh-so-perfectly overblown saxophones creating the true sound of brass.