***
but i couldn't help thinking to myself, we singlehandedly save jazz artists with the grateful mercy of our ears and instabilities; we are critics with wide fixed eyes, their faces and fingers are an asylum madness. their hands flitting shapelessly through space, their inanity of wordwit, their grimaces both articulate and grotesque - they are sanctified by their pulse, and how staunch and still are our hearts without.
my heartbeats and the bassline drop like stones,
& i am never in the business to save, or settle.
.
***
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