Chicago after midnight.
But more to the point. Reflecting upon the sour taste of the Jazz Ensemble, the damnation of the way I want to dance and the profound lack of the only being in creation that belongs in tandem with my tango.
I drink, I dip my head, I tap my feet on the metal bar at the bottom of the barstool, I run my fingers through my thinning hair and I dream, unrelentingly, of her.
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