The piano keys gleamed like teeth in a grinning mouth, white and black and hungry for sound. Marcus Johnson sat at the grand in th...
Marcus played. And the universe answered. It began on a night in March, when the rain had been falling on Harlem since noon and the club smelled of gin and wet wool. He had been experimenting with a new chord progression, something that slid between the cracks of conventional harmony, and as his left hand struck a low C, something in his chest resonated with it. Not metaphorically. Not the way...
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