That was the night when the pain stopped suddenly in the spring rains of Montmarte.

Just the smell of the rain, washing clean the Paris streets.

 The stars. The piano. As if every single note could still the night

There might have been other people listening that night. I really… Read full post »

The music had skipped west, riding on the first cool wind of autumn; traveling about a mile, skimming over the city rooftops and still green trees. So when I threw open my upstairs back window last night, I heard carried with the wind, and surrounded by the crowd… Read full post »