The Demon and the Entropy
The jazz was terrible that night, and Max Winterbourne knew it the moment he walked through the door of the Long Island estate. It was the kind of jazz that had no soul—brass instruments blaring over piano keys that had been tuned by someone who only knew the names of the notes, not their feeling. But the crowd loved it. The crowd always loved things that had no soul, because things with no...
0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 3 Visualizações 0 Anterior