"It's ALIVE!” I whispered under the shadowy awning of a forgotten bookstore, but all I found were dust-laden tomes on electric serves and wandering Yamaha words."
Begin AgainIn the details of her silk scarf, the curves of the horizon danced. I was on a balcony made of poetry and trepidation, positioned somewhere above a suburban dusk.
“A million stars in a teardrop,” I mused one afternoon, with the scent of wisteria entwining softly around fringed lace curtains, echoing the memories of another voyage.
Jazz EveningsThe sound of rolling papers — sweetly caramel — as they hum beneath the electric palm leaves, confined in the rhythms of cosmic classical guitar, particularly on Tuesday.