The saxophone played in a key that didn't exist on any piano. It was a blue note bent so far flat it became purple, and it hung in the smoke-filled room like a question nobody wanted to answer.
His name was Little Charlie, but nobody called him that anymore. They called him Charlie, or Chaz, or just "man" when they needed something and didn't want to use a name. Names were heavy things in the Micro Age. Heavy and inconvenient. I landed the Sky Angel on a rooftop in what used to be Long Island and walked into a party that had been going on for two thousand five hundred years. Well, not...
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