The lace curtain is always drawn cross the checkered window frame.

I cannot see in properly. He intrigues me most because of this. The veil he has drawn between society and his private life makes him the interesting one. And he listens to jazz. I see him dancing from room to room, wooden spoon in hand, pretending to be someone opportunity may have afforded him to be, but didn’t.

He is my melancholy.

The notes cruise off the walls, bounce round his room and squeeze out the open sliver of window. Bass has a life of it’s own that walls cannot contain. I feel my heart beat in time with the rhythmic resonance. It connects me with Sam. I feel like I am him. Strong and black.

Talented but without hope.