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Yes, we were right to tell him

no. He was unnuanced,

slung in a stooping habit

between the crossbeam of

his arms. I watched his fingers

flubber the strings; looked at the

black rind on his fingernails.

Which isn't fair, I know.

In future, I will share

a playlist; a philosophy,

propounding… what? Rhythm.

Flux. Contrareity: the rhythm

within the rhythm; that drag you

can't quite bear – the moment when

the wind drops on a cliff and you

can hear the voices lurking in the

wind. If rhythm was a liquid then

a voice would be its grain. Guitars;

organs - they ride it and then become it;

it's all, all of it, rhythm, which is nuance,

which is everything.


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