The Jazz Howl
I. The piano was out of tune. Always had been. But that night, in the blue light of Blues Alley, I was playing something that didn't need perfect pitch. I was playing the sound of a man who didn't know his world was about to end. Rain was coming down like God had opened the heavens just to wash Harlem clean. The kind of rain that makes you forget whether you're crying or the sky is. I sat at...
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