bahamamama and latitude change

It is Friday night and you are unraveling the long-long week as you rush to catch the bus across town to the club where he’s playing.  You hum up four dark blocks.  From a distance, you can hear the tavern and its clatter. You can practically taste the sweet evening nectar.

Don’t turn back now. Inside, music wears the color white, has silver in his hair and summer in his eyes, and every lyric you’ll hear will be like stumbling across the sound of your own name in his voice.

 

 

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