These days I suck greedily out of my trumpet the sweet intoxication of tones; we are both worn down by time.
I feast off excesses discarded by Lee Morgan as I ain’t no prodigy.
I am a scrounger. A pusher of complex, sweet, sassy, bold notes.
No house gives me shelter, no clock rules my moments. I hold no sign.
My brass is all I need.
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